


before we go

by gaychalamet



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Armie Hammer - Freeform, Boarding School, Call me by your name, Elizabeth Chambers - Freeform, Florence Pugh - Freeform, M/M, Saoirse Ronan - Freeform, Slow Burn, Timothee Chalamet - Freeform, gaychalamet, i guess?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22087534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaychalamet/pseuds/gaychalamet
Summary: And I can see it in him, the way he looks at me - he feels the same way I do. His eyes speak in the way his words won't allow him to. If I only I could reach out and touch – I could, theoretically. He's here, and he's next to me, and in his gaze, I know what it is he wishes to say. But in those inches of space hold a millennium of things we cannot do. Oh, the courage. Who am I to tempt such prowess, but a fool?Timotheé transfers to an elite jesuit new england boarding school and becomes enamored with Armie Hammer – the one person he believes he cannot have.(previously namedAmen)
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 147
Kudos: 195





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> is this just me coping with my own gay angst i've built up over a religious upbringing and the past three & a half years at my own religious boarding school? probably. but it's turned into this, so we're just gonna see where this goes! anyways, i hope you enjoy. happy new years!  
> –t

_Our Father,  
who art in heaven_

The old wood of the pews creaked as the chapel of boys stood up from their kneeling position, the chorus of voices beginning to sound in unison. The sun shone through the tall windows of the old chapel, shining light on the deep cracks that ran through the walls of the architecture. 

_Hallowed be thy name_

Armie fidgeted as he went along with the chorus of boys reciting the prayer, head bowed but eyes open. He tugged at the sleeves of the white button down that the school issued, the sweater vest already beginning to feel stuffy.

_Thy Kingdom come,  
Thy will be done  
On earth as it is in heaven _

He unfolded his hands slowly, running one over the other as if to absentmindedly remind himself he was still there, and then folded them again. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a pair of eyes staring at him from down the pew. He looked over at the wandering glance, which had quickly shot back down towards the wooden floors of the chapel. Dark curly hair, sharp features softening just at the right places – new, Armie had never seen him before. A junior, he could tell by the tie. 

_Give us this day our daily bread,  
And forgive us our trespasses  
As we forgive those who trespass against us;_

Unlike the other boy, Armie didn’t hide his glance. Everyone else had their eyes closed shut – the only witness to his transgression was God. And there were far larger transgressions to be worried about than a stolen glance. Head bowed, but slightly turned, as if to give just enough vantage point for Armie to continue to observe the fair details of this mystery admirer. 

_And lead us not into temptation,  
But deliver us from evil._

As he looked up again to steal another glance, Armie did not shy away. Locking eyes, he smiled softly at the newcomer, who tried to do the same before turning away again. His curls fell down slightly around his face, but did not entirely serve to obstruct the view of his flushed skin. 

And who was he? Who had walked into the chapel unknown, but wouldn’t leave as such. Who tested the boundaries, tempted the leeway of the golden presence that, in turn, had offered him a smile – as if to say, welcome, as much as it was to say a thousand other things. As if it was a dare, an invitation to amuse something long sworn off. 

_Amen._

No – such things should not be entertained. 

_“...May the peace of the Lord be with you always. Let us exchange peace.”_

Armie lifted his gaze, and unfolded his hands again. As he was greeted by those immediately surrounding him, he reached his arm around the two who were in between himself and the curly-haired boy. He extended his hand out.

_Peace be with you–_

The boy nodded back, and Armie let his hand slip away slowly, the ghost of each other's fingers lingering against their skin. 

_–Peace be with you._


	2. Chapter 2

_1995._

Maybe it was Italy. That was the culprit. Lake Como, perhaps – the warm sun of the Northern Italian Summer had sun-kissed his skin, rendering Armie Hammer golden. Golden, from the sunbeams shining down that highlighted his face to his bright smile to his brown hair streaked with hints of honey blonde to the soft skin of his hand. 

That’s what Timothée had heard at least; that he was a diplomat’s son, sent to the cold boarding schools of New England during the winter whilst he spent the summer sunbathing in the villas of Northern Italy. That’s who he was now too, he supposed – sent back to the states to prepare for university while his family ended up back in Paris for the year from their Southern summer home.

He knew he shouldn’t have stared, but what else was there to do? In the swarm of the unknown, packed tight into an old chapel still hot from the waning summer of New Hampshire, there he stood. Armie Hammer was the closest thing to a god Timothée Chalamet had ever bore witness to in a church. Now there he was, the sun-kissed god, leaning up against the wooden doorway of Timothée’s small dorm, waving his hand as if to draw his attention out from a spell. He walked into the room when Timothée seemed to finally registered what was going on, and introduced himself with a handshake. This time, his grip was proper. There was no need for a lingering touch. His eyes bore into Timothée’s as if to validate everything, and yet also as a warning – _they couldn’t speak of such things._ It was unneeded, Timothée was already well aware of who he was, but it was a formality, he supposed.

_How was he liking school?_ He asked.  
Timothée nodded, putting his book on the desk and sitting up straighter in bed. He stuttered out an answer that settled finally at a _Good._  
_Good._ Armie smiled at him, a full smile this time. A grin worth a million dollars, and then some. Possibly. He was lucky, he told him, to get a single. “They’re smaller, but they’re worth it. People fight over them at the end of every year.” He explained, “How’d you get it?”

Timothée shrugged, “How did you get yours?” He could see Armie’s door open through his own. He lived in the room across the hall – the other single on the floor. 

Armie’s fingers lazily traced over the books Timothèe had already placed onto his shelf. “Postgrad, prefect, father may have insisted on pulling some strings.” He shrugged, casually, as if his father’s very name should never be tied to an entirely clean dealing. “That’s good ol’ dad’s favorite pastime. Entire life built on it, the bastard.”

As the older boy pulled out a copy of _Tender is the Night_ to aimlessly flip through the pages, Timothée took a moment to observe. He didn’t look like someone who needed a post-grad year. Handsome, sharp, competent – even if he wasn’t a stellar student, surely his dad could have made a donation decent enough to pull the weight. “Why did you stay another year?”

“And miss out on all this?” He joked, looking over at Timothèe, laughing slightly. “No. I wanted to go to Brown. Didn’t quite cut it. I could’ve gone to Cornell instead, but I hated Ithaca. Another year, more qualifications.” He shrugged, putting the book he’d pulled off the shelf back into place. 

“If you need anything, just ask. Perks of having the prefect live right next door.” He offered, walking back over to the doorframe, where he rested his fist before knocking on the side of the frame twice, gently enough so that it was merely an act of fidgeting. 

Timothée realized he hadn’t moved at all. “Uh, thanks.”

Armie nodded curtly, “No problem, and um, make sure you come to dinner tonight. It’s at six – chicken parm night. Best night there is.” He knocked again, as if cue that the conversation had curbed, “Alright, I’ll see you around, Timmy. Ciao.”

“Ciao.” Timothée echoed, knees pulled to his chin and arms wrapped around his legs, watching as Armie disappeared down the hallway

_Timmy_ – no one had ever called him Timmy before.

࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆,࿐ 

It didn’t take Timothée long to catch on. In the totem pole of Archibald Academy, Armie Hammer stood at the top. It wasn’t a surprise, there was a place for men like him – charming, boisterous, well off – and it was far off from Timothée’s. Armie consumed every room he entered, Timothée barely even took up any space. Nonetheless, there remained certain tender curiosity between them. Quick glances, soft smiles; small gestures that probably meant nothing to Armie, yet sent Timothée’s heart ablaze like the burning bush of Moses. He could remember his mother's warning: _try to not spend too much fraternizing with the sister school!_ – Oh, if only she’d known. 

He hadn’t needed to venture to Arameda, his transgression had caught up to him on the threshold of his own door. The man who better belonged in his father’s Art History books that lined the bookshelves of Timothée’s Parisian home, rather than tucked away in the last dorm of one of the converted brick colonial mansions that the school housed them in. A cruel trick from God, no doubt. Boys like Armie did not just exist in tenfold, and that was both the best and worst thing. There was a certain thrill that came when Armie would lean back his chair in theology – the one class they shared – swinging his arm down low just back enough to hit Timothée’s knee and give him a signal to snag the note from his hands the next time his arm came swinging back. They were stupid notes, amusing anecdotes or jokes about the professor’s tweed jackets and elbow patches. _Who knew such innocent things could inspire such a sin?_

Autumn came quickly – the temperature began to drop, the leaves began to turn. Timothée expected Armie’s golden aura to fade with the sun, a naive sentiment as it had turned out. It was as if he was the one who began to draw the sun in as summer slipped away. The foliage turned the golden of the light in his hair and the red of the blazer he’d finally begun to wear instead of just toss over his shoulder. 

Their small friendship grew as a quiet affair. Time spent in the library during study periods, nods in the hallways of the academic buildings as they passed to class, and conversations between crew practice and coaches meetings and piano sessions and production rehearsals, Armie leaned against the upright piano that occupied the entire right corner of Timothée’s room by the door as Timothée complained about the girls from Arameda who refused to learn lines, or Timothée reclined in the bean bag chair Armie had dragged in from a thrift store in town as he quietly aired his grievances over the crew team. 

It was a casual friendship, built from the fact that their paths seemed to cross in random ways, for whatever reason. There was no reason to play up anything between the pair – no need for competition. It was calm, but there was an acknowledgment that they couldn’t be completely comfortable either. There was a level of intimacy they teetered upon that both reveled in just as much as they were terrified of it – boundaries crossed, and retracted from, and crossed again. 

࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐ 

Timothée listened to the sound of the light drizzle of the night rain, on the roof and against the window the pitter-patter made for almost melodic rhythm that encased and soothed him. He almost didn’t mind the random harder _thunks_ against his window at first, he thought they were just irregularities. But rain didn’t sound like pebbles, he reasoned, sitting up to investigate what was assaulting his room. Crawling out of bed, he got up to go around and stand at the edge of the desk below the window, hauling it up so that he could peer outside. From below, a pebble flew up, missing Timothée and flying into his room instead. Outside on the ground, Armie was looking up at his window, just realizing that he had come out. 

“Armie?” He asked quietly, as if trying not to disturb the others who had windows along the wall, “What are you doing?”

“Timmy,” The older boy sighed, grateful, “Thank God you’re up. Listen, can you open up the window at the end of the hall? I left it cracked when I went out the fire escape but someone must have closed it when it started to rain.”

“Do I want to know?” Timothée questioned, to which Armie just shrugged. He sighed, “Okay, come around. I’ll unlock it.”

“You’re the best, dude.” Armie grinned up at him from below, before turning away to disappear around the corner of the building

Timothée shut the window, taking care in making sure it didn’t make a sound as it closed. He opened his door slowly, avoiding the squeak that came from it if you got too greedy, and walked the short few feet to the window at the end of the hall, unlocking the locks at the bottom and hoisting it up to let Armie crawl in. The tall boy had to contort his body to get in, ducking down and sticking one leg through, and then the other, before the rest of his body followed. “Hey, thanks, man.” He whispered as he straightened up, “You’re a lifesaver.”

Timothée nodded, staying silent but offering him a smile as Armie tried to enter his dorm. He’d begun to turn around to his own room before he heard the older boy’s quiet shit escape into the hallway. The younger boy looked back, before Armie did the same to offer an explanation. “I’m locked out.” He jiggled the door handle to show Timothée, “I’ll have to wait for the nightguard to make rounds again to let me in. Do you have some extra clothes that are too big?”

The younger boy didn’t say anything, but he held his door open wide, as if to say to come in. Armie entered first before Timothée followed, careful to shut the door without making a sound. He went over to his armoire, digging through the t-shirts to find one a size too large for himself, and then into his underwear drawer as well. He handed them over to Armie as he stood up from the bed, “I found the t-shirt at a thrift store in town before I came to school,” Timothée explained, “The boxers are new. Grandma had gotten them for a Christmas or something, but they were too big. I never wore them.”

Armie took his explanation and walked over to the corner of the room to change, leaving Timothée to sit back down on his bed. 

_Why’d he sneak out, then?_ Timothée wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know, but if he didn’t ask he’d drive himself mad wondering. Armie had already taken off the flowy button-down he’d been wearing.  
_Nothing serious._ Armie had begun to strip off the pants. _Went over to Arameda. There's a girl – Elizabeth. They hung out sometimes._ He was trying to play it down, probably for Timothée’s sake. But he knew. Archibald boys didn’t just hang out with Arameda girls. They accompanied them to socials, they took them out to dinner, and then they slept with them in the back of their foreign cars.  
A silence fell over the room for a moment. Timothée tried not to stare at the bottom of Armie’s ass as he put on the boxers under the t-shirt. He looked up, as if he was staring at the ceiling, and not trying to let his heart feel anything from the context of Armie’s words. _Oh,_ and then, as an afterthought trying to save face, _right._

When Armie had finished, he turned back to Timothée and held his bundle of clothes out towards him. The younger boy stood up, taking them into his arms and catching an almost apologetic look in Armie’s eyes; as if he was dying to say sorry, but he didn’t know how, or why. “Can you keep them here?” He asked, “I’ll grab them later, I just don’t have anywhere to put them right now. Don’t want the nightguard to get suspicious, right?”

Timothée nodded weakly. Staring directly into Armie’s eyes, even though he knew he shouldn’t. They both knew it was an excuse. Would he pick up the pants? Probably, but the shirt was to stay. It was an exchange, one for one. A subconscious way to trade parts to keep close even when it was against reason. When Armie realized Timothée had spoken his peace for the night, he took the cue to take his own leave. On his way out he looked back, his hand on the doorknob, “Goodnight, Timmy.” and then afterwards, his signature _Ciao_ , whispered to accommodate the time of night.

Timothée raised his hand loosely as an offering of goodbye, watching as Armie slipped out the door. Upon hearing the handle lock behind him, Timothée dropped the pile of his bed, casting away the other garments to leave the shirt. He held it in his hands for a moment, feeling the material that had graced Armie’s body, before burying his face in it. He stayed like that for a moment, and then stood up straight again, bringing the shirt around to throw it on. It was a light thing – too large to fit properly, and it hung off his frame as if to clearly show any possible observer that it hadn’t been meant for it. Crawling back down into bed, covered up beneath the blankets, he could feel Armie surrounding him as he laid in his shirt. The smell of his cologne, the fabric of his body. Outside, the rain grew heavier, drowning out the shame the world would cast onto him if they were privy to steal a glance through the pane of his window.


	3. Chapter 3

“I don’t have any friends, Timmy.” Armie spit out the toothpaste that had collected in his mouth into the sink, turning the water on to wash it out before looking up at Timothée through the mirror 

“Fuck off.” Timothée returned Armie’s gaze before bending down to splash his face with water. Armie Hammer had plenty of friends. He was never alone unless by choice, there was always someone at his beck and call. He was Armie for god's sake. Timothée blindly reached for the dry wash cloth beside the sink basin, burying his face in it to try off before looking back up at the older boy. 

“I’m serious.” He had turned to face Timothée. They were alone in the bathroom, the shower runs had slowed down, most of the boys in the house had already retreated elsewhere. “I mean, I know people, sure. But friends? The few I had are gone. I mean, real friends. Think about it, how many do you have?”

“Well,” Timothée fell quiet for a second, racking his mind through the people he’d come to know, and realized that Armie was generally right, if he hadn’t missed one crucial detail, “I’d like to think we’re friends. _Real friends_ , I mean.” 

Armie looked away, back down to the sink, and nodded. As if he acknowledged his words, but wouldn’t let it go any further. There were lines, and at times they were blurred, but Armie knew they could never be crossed. Even if he wanted to, and god, sometimes…

“And yet, I hardly see you during the day, or around anyone else.” Armie pointed out 

“That’s because you’re Armie Hammer.” Timothée knew _Armie Hammer_ was different from Armie, but he also knew what that meant at Archibald. If Armie ditched his social circle to hang around him, the other boys would have his head on a pike at the main entrance.

“It’s bullshit.” He cursed, almost his breath, “I’m over it.”

“So, what? This is your grand rebellion? Making friends?” Timothée almost felt an urge to laugh, but realized Armie was entirely serious, “Armie, we’re well into September. And what? You want to craft an entire friend group?” 

“I’m Armie _fucking_ Hammer.” He grinned, “It’s time I do with that what I want.”

From the hall, the proctor shouted for in-rooms – _lights out in fifteen boys, get back to your rooms!_ Armie looked towards the door, and then back at Timothée, grinning excitedly. “Hey, just trust me on this, yeah?” He searched Timothée’s deep eyes for approval, which he reluctantly granted with the softening of his glance, “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

Timothée nodded, grabbing his washrag from the basin and the toothbrush beside in, and following Armie out of the bathroom into the hallway’s last burst of rushing energy before the boys settled into their own rooms for the night. At the end of the hall, the pair turned to face each other, their backs facing their respective rooms. Armie offered his fist, almost like a child, for a fist bump – one of the least intimate gestures, holding the significance of an oath; as if they were too old for pinky promises and too young to shake hands on a deal. “Buona notte.”

Armie had begun to retreat back in his own door, slipping into his room but still sticking his head out to Timothée. Across the hallway, Timothee stood against the wood of his own door, hand behind his back opening up the door. He offered his own _bonne nuit_ to the boy across the hall, watching his door shut before backing up, slipping into the shelter his own darkness. 

࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐

Timothée had nearly forgotten Armie’s revelation as the days went along. He noticed small changes, a shift in who Armie had around him more than others. It was gradual, distancing himself from others while bringing a select few to the foreground slowly. Even with Timothée, he had more openly begun to bring him into the circle. He knew Armie knew what he was doing, and he knew it would roll around to him eventually. He thought about Armie enough, there were other things to do – recital pieces to perfect, lines to memorize, grades to keep up. 

_Lunch._ It was one word, coming from behind without a context as Timothée gathered his things from theology to head out of the classroom. Armie had come from behind him, placing his hand on his shoulder as if to verify who he was. It was always like that – Timothée had become accustomed to Armie’s touch. The small things, unnoticeable to others but all-consuming to him. He wondered if Armie knew it too; as if it was a way to say what they couldn’t. Or perhaps it was all Timothée, over-analyzing every sliver of affection Armie cast to him. Perhaps he didn’t even notice, too busy worrying about Elizabeth to even notice the way Timothée leaned into him.  
_We'll go into town,_ he’d finally done it. They’d go in his car. _The Cabriolet._  
_Cabriolet?_ Timothée asked – had Armie really named his car something that pretentious?  
_The Audi._ Armie smiled, as if amused by Timothée’s question. _Maroon, black top._ It was a gift for graduation. _Goodfella,_ he’d named it.  
_Where to?_ He asked, Armie’s arm still slung over his shoulders as they walked out of the classroom  
_A diner in town,_ He told him. _We’re stopping at Alameda on the way._ If he wanted to pick up anyone, they could. _One of the theatre girls?_

“We’re bringing Elizabeth, then?” Timothée inferred 

Armie laughed, stopping their walk and ducking into one of the small arched window nooks along the hallway. “No. I’m bringing along a friend, Florence. Our families work together in Italy, we met over the summer. I think you’ll like her.” He assured him, “Stop worrying about Elizabeth, Timmy. I told you, we hang out sometimes, that’s all. She’s just a girl.”

“Worry?” He asked, trying to play off exactly what he knew, “Why would I–”

“Well...” Armie answered, four letters that held the weight of the world in between them. _That night he’d had let him through the window, the shirt, the way he froze up when Armie told him about her._ It was all captured in one word, there was nothing else to be said. Anything more would just be an invitation for the wandering ears of the passing boys filing through the hallway. “Look, just shoot an instant message over during class if you want to bring someone. No dates, though – it’s a friend group, not a harem. I’ll see you in the parking lot after class.”

࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐

Saoirse was already waiting with who Timothee assumed was Florence when Armie pulled into the semi-circle driveway of the Arameda Green. He didn’t even put the car in park, just stopped with his foot on the break as the girls got into the back seat. Saoirse immediately went to hug Timothee from behind, wrapping her arms around the carpeted seat and his shoulders before introducing herself to Armie. The girl stuck out like a sore thumb in Arameda, pink hair and Irish accent and the way her presence seemed to just crash into rooms. On his other side, in between himself and Armie, the assumed Florence had opened the middle console and was digging around, for presumably a cigarette and lighter. 

Looking over to his left, the blonde girl looked up at him and smiled, sticking her hand out for him. _Florence._ She had youthful features— full face, slim nose, plump lips, kind eyes. He returned the favor, _Timothée._ The blonde returned to her search as Armie pulled up to a small wooden building, _We’re here._ She pocketed a Camel as they all climbed out of the Audi. 

Wood paneled walls, tiled floors randomly colored, old vinyl seats, film posters plastered along the walls and old arcade games against the back wall — the restaurant felt like a time capsule, and in the corner, the curation of friends Armie had collected. One of the boys stood up, Timothee recognized him as another junior — Smitty — to call their attention, _hey! there they are! Pee-yew is here too!_

From beside him, he heard Florence sigh, _oh, shut it._ Will sat back down as she continued, _you’re hardly any fucking better, Arthur._ That shut him up enough as the group filed into the large circular corner booth. The four boys that greeted them were an eclectic group. The first boy, Arthur Smith – _Smitty_ for short – towering and built, a top lacrosse player — his blonde curtain bangs curling at its tips through the obvious straightening attempt. Yates was next to him, dark hair in an outgrown bowl cut, tall and quite large, Timothee recognized him as a member of the crew team, but he could hardly classify him as popular. Oscar was the smallest of the boys, but the most eccentric, barely cutting 5’5” with a wild brown mane of long curly hair and a rumored IQ of 130. Charlie was the last one, lanky and fair featured, his light brown ginger cut into a long fringed crop. He was a left-brained kind of person, chemistry, coding, analytical thought, reason, and logic. He was the ying to Oscar’s passion-driven intuitional and sentimental yang. 

It was a ragtag effort. Theatre nerds, athletes, the random genius; whatever Armie had managed to build seemed to weirdly mesh. Timothée wondered if Armie had been doing what he’d been doing with Timothée with the rest of them — he could see it, Armie could easily be the sort of person whose attention could make you feel irreplaceable, even when he made everyone feel like that. Polaroids were taken by Saoirse to commemorate the occasion, Timothée ordered a milkshake and a burger to distract himself from the thoughts. 

Next to him, as if he could read his mind, Armie put his hand on his knee under the table as Arthur had started a rant as to why Archibald Academy should invest in luxury bidets. Timothée took his pinky finger in his own, locking them together Armie looked over to Timothée, as if to garner his reaction to Arthur’s thoughts, though his gaze between them held a different sentiment. His hand slipped from the hold gracefully, keeping contact with Timothée for as long as possible before slipping away completely. He wondered if he had pulled the same move with Elizabeth before — _don’t worry about her, Timmy._ Armie’s words replayed in his mind, but he couldn’t help himself. What did he call Elizabeth, _Lizzie?_

The fear had finally crept into Timothée. He knew what Armie was beginning to mean to him, but what if he was nothing to Armie? Just another person to through into his personal melting pot of characters. All the small things, just that? Small things; insignificant. It was a fate worse than death. From across the table, Saoirse caught his eye, her expression softened. There was a magnetism to Armie Hammer, and they both knew Timothée was too far gone for hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this chapter was a bit of insight and set up for the coming chapters and that it was a bit shorter, so my apologies for that, but i hope you enjoyed it anyway! I had to include my loves, saoirse ronan and florence pugh, in here too, of course, but I also wanted to say a quick disclaimer that the boys of the story – yates, oscar, arthur and charlie – are fictional oc's that i think will really round out the story and plot, so i hope you enjoy seeing them develop as characters a well! classes start again today, so i'll be busier and updates might slow down a little bit, but it won't be anything too drastic. it'll be worth it, i promise!
> 
> all my love,  
> t


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me? finally updating after over two weeks? miracles do happen! my apologies for my disappearance, and for the renaming. i assure you, it shouldn't happen again!
> 
> – t

Armie leaned against one of the large oak trees in the main courtyard, zoning out from whatever Oscar had gone on to talking about to stare at Timmy across the way. He stood with Arthur, laughing at something the boy was saying. Apart of Armie hated himself — he shouldn’t have stared back. He should’ve let it die that day, let Timothée have his tiny crush on the upperclassman and not entertain it further. That was harmless enough; what Armie had done had stoked the flames. If it was anyone else, he would’ve already made the move. If it was Elizabeth, it wouldn’t have bothered him. If it was any other girl, he’d already be over it. But this was different, this had real consequences. Timothée reminded him of Lucien, the first one. Fourteen, the Italian summer, the exhilaration and the horror of being in another boy's arms, and worse of all, of liking it. The way his father called him _Lucifer_ with a venomous tone, and snapped the belt destined to leave welts. 

He’d been sent to Archibald to fix it, and there he was, Armies downfall — standing there, smiling as the autumn morning sun contrasted against his pale skin, laughing as Wilhelm made a fool of himself, no doubt.

 _You like him, don’t you?_ Oscae asked, realizing that Armie had stopped listening to his first topic.  
_Who, Smitty?_ Armie answered, nearly laughing, and then as to deliver the punchline of the joke, _Nah, he’s a tool._  
_Not him, Armand,_ Jerome insisted on using everyone’s full names besides Charlie's “Charles”, _Timothée. And before you give me some bullshit about ‘liking’ — you know what I mean._

__Armie denied it, shaking his head as if it was obvious. _That wasn’t who he was._ Oscar must know that, didn’t he? _Men like Armie weren’t like that._ Though they both knew that was a lie. And perhaps that’s why Timothée’s insecurities had started to bleed, but they had to be careful. Armie had to be careful. Timothée wore his heart on his sleeve, Armie wore his in his eyes. He just hoped Timothée had figured that out, but he knew that was unlikely. _ _

__“Just be careful, Armand. I mean, you are. You’re lying to my face.” Oscar stared at him, seeing right through all his barriers. “But, you know. You’re you. You can’t get away with the same things I do.” That, in itself, was an admission of sorts on his own part._ _

__“No shit.” Armie laughed, but the laugh was hardly genuine, drenched in sarcasm. His throat was dry, he was getting skittish with the conversation, and most of all, for some weird reason, he was irritated too. As if this was his sacred belonging, and Oscar’s gentle intrusion was somehow penetrating his sole comfort._ _

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

__Timothée pushed gently on Armie’s cracked door, making the older boy look up from the rubix cube he’d been messing around with; he’d given up on solving it a long time ago, but it was a fine way to keep his hands busy and pass time procrastinating on assignments. Maybe one day he’d get it right, somehow solve it on accident, but he knew he never would. He’d lied to the nurses after the first class, fabricating a lie about feeling nauseous and drained, and had laid up in bed since, overthinking and burying himself in the overwhelming feeling of self-loathing. Now the source of his transgressions was standing in his doorway, the light infiltrating the room through the thin linen curtains illuminating the curves of Timothée’s face._ _

_I brought you some soup._ Timothée placed a styrofoam container on his desk, he had heard he was down for the count. _How are you feeling?_  
Sick. I haven’t felt alright since the day I met you. I’m sick, Armie thought. But he didn’t dare tell him. Instead, he offered a singular, _Fine._  
_You’re not actually sick, are you?_ He asked. 

Armie laughed, this time it was real. Timothée ventured to sit at the edge of his bed. The linens and blankets the school gave them were itchy and hard; Armie had been switching them out for soft cotton and warm raschel since he was a freshman. Timothée was silent for a moment, staring at his hands as he felt the soft blanket beneath him – warm from the sunlight pouring into the window above the end of the bed, and from Armie’s body heat below them – and then rubbed them nervously against his thighs before gathering the courage to look up to his friend. “Is it because of me?” 

__

Armie’s breath hitched in his throat. How was he supposed to answer something like that? Yes, Timothée. It is because of you. Everything is because of you, everything since the day I met you – no. This isn’t who you’re supposed to be, he chastised himself, repeating it over and over again in his mind. Armie looked at Timothée, catching his eye and holding onto it. “What do you want me to say?” 

__“Something that’s not bullshit.” Timothée challenged_ _

__“Not all of us have that luxury, Timothée.” Armie offered, because in a way, it was all that he could._ _

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

__Armie couldn’t help but wonder who else knew. How many Oscar’s were there? Arthur wouldn’t know – he was the type of person who was too caught up in the crazy ideas that bounced in his mind to pick up on the subtle nuances of Armie’s glances and touches. Charlie wouldn’t either, he was too busy with a subtlety of his own carried on with Oscar, and Oscar wouldn’t tell him. He knew what was at stake all too well to inform Charlie. Florence? No. She was hardly interested in non-platonic tenderness, whether publicly stated or hidden away or otherwise. He was sure Saoirse knew. What else would there be to discuss backstage? Surely after enough time you’d run out of things to say, and Timothée had probably divulged. But there was no danger in that. Timothée deserved a confidant of sorts, and Saoirse was the type to keep her lips sealed._ _

__Who else? Had someone else picked up on their slight signals? Had they even, fully?_ _

__He tried not to think about it, and in his attempts, he ended up in the old back parking lot at Armeda, Elizabeth in his passenger seat as he waited for Florence to come around so that they could go to dinner with the rest of the group. Well, that wasn’t necessarily the whole truth; he’d come 45 minutes earlier and told Elizabeth, but withheld the information from Florence. They’d made out a healthy amount, she’d put her hands in his trousers a bit – but of course, it wasn’t something they’d divulge to Florence. The blonde girl would come, knock on the window, Elizabeth would hop out and say that she just merely ran into him after coming back from a cafe run herself and had asked him a question. Florence would know it was a lie, almost immediately. She’d end up having her suspicions confirmed later on, one way or another. She was the type of girl who was known for keeping secrets, and so, she had amassed them all._ _

_When will he let her hang out with his friends?_ Elizabeth was always asked the question. Armie always brushed it off. _Like her._  
_She is one of the friends._ He shrugged, busying himself with the heat controls. _You’re different._  
Usually, she’d let it go. This time she pressed on. _How were they different? Was the only reason Florence in the group because she was one of the few Armeda girls he hadn’t made out with?_  
_What? Did she want him to make out with her, too?_ It was supposed to be a rhetorical question.  
_Would she be able to hang out then?_ Elizabeth’s irritation had finally come full-fledged.  
Armie’s answer was short, deadpanned. It lent no room for possibility: _No._

__Armie was afraid Timothée would hate him forever if he had to be around Elizabeth, that was the truth. But she to stick around to try to find out, and Armie didn’t go after her. By the time Florence crawled into his car, there were no traces of Elizabeth left behind._ _

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

__He tried to find a way to distance himself from Timothée, he really did. But it was a useless venture. He didn’t want to be away from Timothée – they understood each other without ever having to say a word to reach that understanding. No one had ever gotten Armie the way Timothée did. The night Timothée sits in his room as the sun sets, it feels different from the nights Elizabeth sat in his car. There a level of intimacy between the pair Armie had never managed to invest in Elizabeth, even though he’d touched far more than he’d ever touched Timothée._ _

__The ‘94 Cabriolet was parked by the bank of the local lake. Armie had gotten restless over the week, and of course Timothée had noticed. He hadn’t even blinked when the older boy had insisted they get off campus as soon as practice had ended. It was far too cold to swim, but it was never too cold to play loud music and scream to get your problems off your chest and into the woods. The contents of the two takeout containers the boys had snagged from the local mexican place were already half devoured, and the defrost was on full blast was obnoxiously loud (though, admittedly, the CD mix Armie had playing was probably obnoxious too, and definitely louder.)_ _

_Napkins?_ Timothée asked. It was both a question of their existence, and if so, where?  
_Glob bok._ Armie’s answer came out muffled due to the large bite of burrito occupying his mouth, but Timothée got the message 

He reached out to unlock the glove box in front of him, completely forgetting about the napkins when what he recognized as his own copy of _Tender is the Night_ fell out; Armie had borrowed it a few days after he’d picked it off of Timothée’s bookshelf the first day they met. He closed his takeaway box carefully, placing it up on the dashboard. He picked it up off the car floor, and stared at it as he flipped through the pages for a few moments silently. Armie watched him for what felt like an eternity, closing his own takeaway and placing it up parallel to Timothée’s as he swallowed the bite he had taken before. 

Finally, Timothée spoke: “I didn’t realize you still had it.” 

“I remember how much you said you liked it when I borrowed it. Your annotations are nice.” Armie let a small smile grace his face. Timothée was still looking down at the book, and Armie continued to look over at him as his body had moved slightly to face him in the passenger seat. “It reminds me of you.” 

__It was a metaphor, of course. This was how they always talked about things. At least, this was how they always talked about the things they couldn’t talk about. They both knew. With just five words, the conversation had turned into something else entirely._ _

“ _It reminds me of you._ ” Timothée repeated quietly back to himself, his breath harboring almost a sense of humor in it as if he couldn’t quite believe the words. “Did you read it?” 

__“Yes.” He answered. Not because he had read the book (although he had), but because he knew Timothée. He’d seen Timothée, he understood who he was. He knew him, and he’d taken him for all he was – and after all, that was what the question really was._ _

__“And did you like it?” The question was barely audible coming from Timothée_ _

__Armie reached his hand out, tucked a loose curl that had fallen into his face from looking down into his ear, and then traced his hairline down to the nape of his neck, where he let his hand rest lightly. A touch much more intimate than any way he’d ever touched any girl. Timothée finally turned to look at him when he answered: “Very much so.”_ _


	5. Chapter 5

As his arms strained and he could feel the burn in his legs, Armie tried to distract himself by looking at his breath form in the air. It was late enough in the year and early enough in the morning to where that had finally started to occur. Soon enough the lake would start to freeze, rowing on the water would end and they’d have to go inside for winter training. Today he rowed in the early Saturday sun and half watched the typical scenery go by past him. 

The theatre and performing arts building Archibald shared with Arameda looked out over the long width of the lake, adjacent to the rowing center and every once and while if he was just lucky enough, Armie caught Timothée coming to or frow. Today, it was with Saoirse, coming around the back of the building to the door that led to the classrooms in the basement. 

He wasn’t even sure if they had a Saturday practice, or if the two of them just liked to hole up in there to hang out, either way the pair were down there often. He wondered if there could be something going on between them. No, he shut the possibility out. Even though he had no right to be jealous, there was still that small twinge of pain in his chest. He tried to convince himself Timothée would never do that, that he wasn’t like that. And then Armie remembered Elizabeth, and the twinge in his chest became a heavy sinking feeling within his stomach. What did Timmy feel, if something this small made Armie feel like he wanted to sink himself in the lake? The realization made him sick – he was a hypocrite. 

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

Timothée shut the cover of the piano carefully, standing up from the stool to go over where Saoirse had made herself comfortable on the stage. She had propped herself up on her elbows, feet dangling over the edge of the stage. When he stopped, she looked back at him as he came over to her to sit down with her. 

_Why had he stopped?_ She watched as he eased himself down onto the edge of the stage, letting his legs fall over the side next hers.  
He shrugged. _It wasn't possible to play forever._

The entire building was still; the cherubs painted high on the tall walls of the theatre, frozen with their trumpets in bliss. They sat there in silence for some time, staring out on all the empty red seats. Saoirse watched as Timothée slipped into his thoughts, which was becoming an increasing occurrence. He always thought, but in the beginning, it was the musing of someone who just knew things. Someone who had an overabundance of facts and antidotes and ideas crammed into a brain that had only lived sixteen years, who had too much going on in their mind not to just let it sit and collect dust. This was different, as if one thing had start to consume him – silent spells, blank stares in voids, a sense that there was a looming presence in his thoughts. 

_What was wrong?_ She called him kid, trying to keep a ton of upliftment in her voice, but the edge of worry was evident. She sat up now fully, no longer reclining on her arms. _He'd been off._  
He didn’t look away from his stare into the theatre. _He was just fucked, he supposed._  
_Well, she hope it was better next time._ She made a face, and then smiled. _Getting fucked was supposed to be good._  
The curly haired boy rolled his eyes, finally looking over to her. _Not like that._  
She nodded, looked down at the peanut butter jar that was sat beside them, ate another bite and then looked back up at him. _Like what, then?_

Timothée looked back out over the theatre again. What was he supposed to say? Even if he knew what to say, would it make sense? Did anything about his relationship with Armie make sense? Instead he didn’t have to say anything, Saoirse just moved over closer to Timothée, leaning her head against his shoulder. He moved his hand from his lap to interlace his land with hers. “It’s okay to have feelings. You know that, right?” She tilted her glance up towards the taller boy.

He sighed, shaking his head in almost both disbelief and twisted amusement. “I wish everyone were like you.”

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

Timothée ran his fingers through Armie’s hair as the older boy leaned against the side of Timothée’s bed, fiddling around with a gameboy on the floor as Timothée laid above him commenting on the Donkey Kong level they’d been working through. The wooden panel of the bed frame dug into Armie’s back didn’t bother him, and Timothée didn’t mind the weird way his neck was bent uncomfortably to look at the small screen. In their own little corner of the world, in unspoken sentiments, where it didn’t matter who Armie was, and who Timothée wasn’t. As he finally lost, Armie sighed and let the device fall to his side before looking up at the younger boy. _Had he called his parents back yet?_

Timothée groaned, and then rolled his body back around to stare at the ceiling and sighed, _No – it was too late now in Paris, anyways._ He turned his head to the side again to look back at Armie. 

_His mom seemed nice, though._ Armie complimented, and then shrugged, crossing his legs and turning his body around to face towards his friend on the bed. _She knew his name now, too!_

Timothée squinted his eyes: _why?_

 _She called a lot, and the phone was right near his room, so he answered it a lot. Most of the moms in the house knew him._ Armie raised his elbow up to nudge his arm, and winked at him. _He was a momma’s favorite… well, except for Thomas at the end of the hall. He helped sneak him off campus one time to go get high a couple years before – Mrs. Horace hadn’t exactly appreciated that._

“What about your family, then?” Timothée dared to ask, “Since you’re best friends with my mom now, I guess.”

Armie shrugged again, looking back down to his fingers. “Not much to say.” Which was undoubtedly a lie, “My dad works for the government – a diplomat, of sorts. Not really quite sure, if I’m honest. Mom comes from old money in the midwest. Met at Yale, then he was in the military for a while. Moved to Europe when I was 7, we've been in Rome since I was 15. Rich, boring.” 

“Ah yes. How boring it is to live in luxury.” 

Armie repeated the words in a mocking tone, before playfully launching himself onto the bed to pin Timothée down. Mock wrestling had been a normal occurrence in Armie’s life from freshman year, the crew team always wanting to find ways to harmlessly play fight amongst itself in its free time. At first there was laughter, the floundering of arms clashing with hardly any rhyme or reason. A normal occurrence, except this time it wasn’t normal.

Once the moment was calmed, the way Timothée looked up at him wasn’t normal. And the way Armie felt his heart pounding and his throat dry up definitely wasn’t normal, either. Suddenly, he was far more aware of Timothée below him – all bones and dark curls. The softness of his skin, that all of a sudden seemed like the sun through the windows was making him glow. For a flashing moment, he almost thought he wanted to kiss the boy – he didn’t. Instead, he just let go of a wrist and rustled up his hair a bit. Slowly, as if not to make a larger disruption than there already had been, Armie retreated to the far side of the bed, folding his legs up as he shuffled carefully into the corner. Timothée sat up himself, pulling his knees to his chest. 

_What about his?_ Armie offered, trying to return back to the conversation. As if to revert to normal.  
_Hm?_ Timothée looked up to him as if he had zoned off looking at the threading of his blanket  
_His family._ He reiterated, _what were they like? He didn’t actually know that much about them._

Timothée shrugged. His mom used to be on Broadway. His dad was a philosophy professor at Paris-Sorbonne, they met while he was getting his doctorate. Everyone they knew was something similar. He told Armie as much. This was his normal, it had never really occurred to him that someone else wouldn’t see it in such a way. He told Armie about Pauline, too. The older sister who had always seemed more their kid than Timothée every way — too smart, too talented, too pretty. She was their parents child, Timothée figured he had just come through to sweep up the crumbs on the tail end of things.

 _Well_ , Armie offered. _He happened to be quite fond of crumbs._

Timothee took a minute to observe him, still a bit flushed from their interaction before and school tie askew. He was fond of crumbs – that was his statement of affection for the day. What it meant, Timothée didn’t know. Eventually he’d stopped trying to figure it out and just started to memorize them and hide them away so that he’d have them to crawl back into once Armie had gotten tired of him. Today it was crumbs. Today Timothée was grateful it was crumbs – tomorrow, it could be nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i guess i should start out apologizing for disappearing for like three months. there just was a lot going on in my life academically, personally, emotionally/mentally, and obviously with everything going on in the world right now. i'm so sorry this chapter is shorter, but i wanted to get this out and get kickstarted again. 
> 
> i hope everyone is healthy, doing well, and staying safe. i'll see y'all soon.
> 
> – t


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really am out here giving you this slowburn you did not anticipate, and were not warned about... i'm so sorry y'all. it's about to be an emotional rollercoaster from pretty much here on out, my dudes! please forgive me, here's 1800 words of yearning and pining and emotional non-confessions to make up for it? for now? maybe?
> 
> hope you guys are staying safe and healthy, as always. 
> 
> –t

Timothée folded the last shirt from the pile of clothes he had built up earlier that morning, placing it over the shirt Armie had left with him the night he had snuck him back onto dorm. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to bring that particular one with him – it was too big on his frame, and far too light of a shirt to wear in a Parisian November. Nonetheless, it would’ve felt wrong of him to leave it for some reason; as if leaving it to hang amongst the ironed sets of his uniform and worn t-shirts he had stowed away in case the sun decided to shine on their patch of New Hampshire forest during the warmer months was somehow neglecting it, _neglecting Armie._

Outside, in the hallway, he could hear the revolving troops of families coming into the house. Mothers fussing over their baby boys and alumni fathers pointing out their old rooms while his peers tried to usher them out of the building and off campus. If they were lucky, some boys had taken their cars and left early – hollering down the hallway and rushing to leave as soon as the last bell of classes had rung. He figured Armie would have been one of them, had his parents not lived in Rome. The two expat boys, the two left on dorm by the end of the afternoon.

Timothée realized that they had never truly been alone before – there was no true privacy living with a dozen other boys in one hallway, there was always someone right around the corner. It made him suddenly feel exposed, as if there were suddenly a thousand more risks he hadn’t realized he had been taking. He wondered if Armie had been aware, he had to be. It made sense now, why he acted the way he did. Timothée wondered if he had previously had such a moment as Timothée was having then – if there had been another boy once. _Before._ He had never thought of an Armie before him; as if God had placed him right in his path just as the time came, with nothing before or after. It was a naive notion, one that he knew would break his heart when it inevitably turned out false. But the thought planted another gnawing thought in his mind – _what if he hadn’t been the first?_

As a way to try to insulate the sound of his piano, Timothée was not a stranger to closing himself off in his room. His door, for the most part, was one of the ones that typically stayed shut. But the revelation made him feel claustrophobic, as if he couldn’t breathe, and the only way he could escape it was if he ran straight to the edge of the earth. To both his joy and dismay, Armie had his door open too, as he often did – one of the few last occupied. Seeing the younger boy prop open his door, Armie smiled. 

It was clear the older boy hadn’t had as much forethought of his clothes as Timothée had, it seemed as though he had just barely started, pulling out random articles of clothing to sniff test before throwing them into the open and bare case on his bed. 

_There he was,_ Armie commented. He figured Timothée might have managed to snag an early flight out, he told him.  
Timothée hadn’t been so lucky. He was bound for a shuttle ride from school to the local airport. From there, JFK to Paris. He explained his journey to Armie, who seemed to be in a similar boat, except from JFK he would head south, to his family’s winter residence in Rome. They both were leaving in the early hours of the morning. 

“I wish Paris and Rome weren’t as far apart. I would come up to see you, you know.” Armie had stopped his packing to stand in Timothée’s doorway, as he often did. “It would be fun, I think.”

Timothée nodded, and stumbled out an agreement. He could imagine it, the pair of them roaming Paris together, alone. His parents wouldn’t mind, they’d probably be quite charmed by Armie; his mother already was. It was a romantic notion – too romantic for their luck. There would never be a Paris trip. The separation was through more than just distance. 

Armie readjusted himself to lean on the doorframe, as if it would make him seem more comfortable. It didn’t. The idea of a weekend prancing around the city of romance together had put something in the air that was palpable than tension. “Look, uh, do you have an extra sweater I could borrow that would fit me?” Armie asked, “All of mine feel too stuffy to wear everyday around the city. You have a better eye for that kind of stuff.”

He was right, Timothée had a knack for finding the largest just ugly-enough sweaters and stuffing his closet full of them. He wondered if this was how Armie had come around to finish off this trade, finally finding a natural enough excuse to snag something from his closet – the large billow of a shirt that Timothée had hidden away in his suitcase for one of Timothée beloved dad sweaters. He pulled out one of the less busier ones that drowned him, and would still feel just a bit oversized on Armie: a yale blue double-xl, with lines of tan and muted green running through it for design. 

He didn’t throw it to Armie, just as Armie hadn’t thrown the shirt. He extended it out in his hand as he fully finally came into the room, holding it out for the older boy. Armie accepted it into his own hand, though carefully grazing his fingers across Timothée’s as he took into his own grasp. It was intentional, Timothée knew that. The entire thing was intentional, one of his admissions – a _yes, you’re right,_ but also an apology for what he couldn’t do, and a remprend, and a thousand possibilities of _what if’s_ – allowed to exist only in locked in eyes and brushing hands – that _could’ve been_ and _should’ve been_ but never would be. Sooner than Timothée would’ve liked (and he would have gladly taken an eternity, if offered), it ended. Armie pulled back from the transaction of wishes and wills and desires that they communicated wordlessly everytime they caught up in a moment as such, letting every thing die as it clung in the air. 

Before Timothée had fully shaken off the daze he’d been consumed in just moments before, Armie was already onto the next order of business, searching around the room as if he was keen on finding a single thing in particular. He spotted it (or so it seemed, Timothée didn’t even know what it was exactly that he was looking for, he just stood in the middle of the room waiting to be clued in), but then looked down at his hand and the sweater occupying it. He looked around again for a second, before deciding against whatever it was he had debated, and threw the sweater over his body. He adjusted it briefly and then turned to his previous attention.

He turned around to face the confused younger boy again, and tossed the pen and paper he had picked from Timothée’s desk to him; he hadn’t needed to toss them, admittedly, they were still close enough, but he figured there had been enough transgressions for the day. “Do you have a number I can get you on over there in Paris?” He asked, and then joked, “My parents got me a cellphone when I turned eighteen, it usually has service – if not, there’s a payphone just down the way – I want to call your mom on Thanksgiving.”

Timothée managed a laugh at his remark, but admitted to having a home phone, and scribbled it down as he held the paper still on his knee with his free hand. “It’s best to call around lunch, or in the afternoon sometime. That’s when I’m home most often – or later, before you go to sleep or whatever. I’m always in by eleven in the winter.”

He handed the paper back over to Armie, who looked better in the sweater, Timothée realized, than he ever had. Armie nodded as he took the paper, folded it, and then tucked it into his back pocket, “Lunch, or night, got it.” He repeated, “Look, I, uh – um…”

For a moment, they both seemed confused. Armie scratched the back of his neck, studied the ceiling, and then back down at Timothée, who had tilted his head and knitted his eyebrows in an non-judgemental questioning look. Armie finally sighed, and broke whatever internal debate he was seemingly having, extending his arm to slowly, carefully – as if he was afraid of rejection – bring Timothée into a hug. He brought his arms around his body, the pads of his fingers pressing into the skin of his shoulder, and Timothée accepted gratefully, wrapping his arms and grabbing at the loose fabric of the sweater, one hand around his waist, the other up at the space between his shoulder blades. He could hear his heartbeat as his face just so rested against his chest, while he felt the soft weight of Armie leaning his head against the upper side of his own. He wanted to melt into his presence, morph into one so that he would never have to be without him again. 

“I’ll see you soon.” Armie’s voice was but a whisper above Timothée’s ear.

“I’ll talk to you sooner.” Timothée offered, voice muffled into Armie’s chest in such a way that he could feel the words against his heart 

He let out a soft, charmed laugh, “Talk to you sooner.”

It felt all too quick, but eventually it was Armie that stepped back. Timothée wanted to protest: beg him to stay, hold him as they lie in his bed. Nothing else – just lie there, and let himself take in everything he could, bury himself in this one moment he knew they’d be alone in. Perhaps the only one they’d ever have to be alone. He couldn’t mark up the courage, so instead he made him quiet, watching Armie make his way back to the doorway. The sun was just beginning to set, and in the golden hour, the scene almost felt holy. Armie stopped where he was to bask in the moment.  


The light came in just right to reflect against the delicate sharpness of Timothée’s features, making him shine, as if he was made from marble, coming alive just to drive Armie mad from infatuation, and adoration, and wonder. It made Armie glow too, the golden tan that seemed to permanently grace his skin lighting up his presence, as if it was actually soaking in the sunlight and internalizing it – it mesmerized Timothée like a fire, he wanted to consume himself in it. Two beautiful men, alone for a moment in space and time, seeing the beauty only in each other. It was a manifestation of everything and nothing and all the small, infinite things inbetween – a marvel to behold, for an audience of two alone, to keep stowed away in lover's hearts forever.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought this was going to end up being one of the shorter chapters but it ended up being on the longest? it's a bit different, more dialogue than usual, but i like how it turned out in the end. i'm sorry this took longer than usual! i've been doing a lot of story planning and writing of others chapters and another story i'm thinking about as well behind the scenes, and i had to finish up my work for school as well this past week so it put me just a bit behind schedule! my apologies, the next chapter should be up in the next few days, but enjoy this for now!
> 
> and thank you for 100 kudos, it means a lot!
> 
> –t

The first phone call came two days into break. Pauline answered it, shouting up the stairwell of the Chalamet’s Parisian home from where the phone stood at the bottom landing, _Timothée!_ and when his mother came in from the kitchen to see who it was, his sister shrugged, _his friend._

Timothée knew immediately, Armie. He was quick to fly down the stairs, jumping to slide down the rail of the last flight. His mother gave a disapproving look; she was always trying to tell him to not do reckless things in the house – the house was old, historic, she said, _it didn’t have safety measures. It was built to last, it didn’t care if he broke a bone._ He grabbed the phone from Pauline as soon as his feet hit the floor again, ushering a breathless, “Hello?”

On the other end, Armie laughed, “Timmy? Hi.”

“Uh, yeah it’s me, hi.” 

From behind him, his mother asked, _is it Armie?_  
Pauline, now leaning against the bannister Timothée had come down, looked to his mom. _Whoever it is,_ she said, _he’s loaded. He’s got his own cell phone!_

_How are you?_ , Armie was asking on the other end. “Yeah, good, man. Good.” Timothée turned back around to give a pleading look to Pauline and try to usher them away back into the sunroom with sharp tilts of his head. 

_Well is it?_ His mother asked  
Timothée sighed. _Yes, máma._  
_Tell him I say hi._ She smiled and then ushered Pauline back to the sunroom they had occupied before the phone had disturbed the peace of the house.

“My bad, man.” Timmy apologized, slowly sitting down on the upholstered french chair by the coffee table that the phone sat on “they like to know. Mom says hi, though.” 

“It’s no problem – they’re sweet. Give them my best.” For some weird reason, it was as though he could hear him smile, even though it was technically impossible. 

“What are you up to over there in _Roma,_ then?” Timothée had that amused edge to his voice that made Armie smile even more

“Lunch with my father’s coworkers, I snuck off to catch a minute.” And then he lowered his voice, “They’re insufferable.” Timothée imagined he’d be looking around to make sure no one caught him speaking, foreign service officers mingling together in a yard or extravagent dining room. 

“Is that all your parents do?” Timothée asked, and then upon realizing that he may have been too harsh out the gate, tried to soften it, “Work, I mean. That’s all you’ve ever really told me about.”

“No, I guess not. But,” Armie sighed, “everything they do is political. They’ve run our lives with diplomacy. _Nothing sways the mothership_.” The tone of his voice had become slightly comical, as though it was a joke, but Timothée could tell there was a deeper meaning to it. 

“Is it stuffy?” Timothée tried to lighten the mood

“Unbearably.” Armie remarked, “you?”

“Hardly. We just had lunch in the sunroom, but dad’s gone up back to the library to study by now. Mom and Pauline are still in there. We’re having guests tonight I think, a professor from England Dad went to grad school with.” Timothée imagined what it would be like for them, twenty years in the future. Different homes, different careers, different lives, different countries probably, too. Would they have families? Armie certainly would. Who would Timothée be to them? Uncle Timmy? A distant family friend they saw once in a while? An essentially unknown person in old photographs and years? _Nothing?_ – that’s what Timothée assumed. “No exciting world-changing policy, though, I’m afraid.” 

“Oh, what I would do to be there instead.” Armie tried to laugh, but it didn’t seem right. It wasn’t simply differences in their afternoons – these were fundamental differences to their lives. What Timothée had experienced, the laidback artisitic and academic curious aura of his life, was far from the stiffly political and regulated life Armie was bound to. Timothée had a liberation Armie would never know. “Look, I gotta get back to everyone. But I’ll call you again soon, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Timmy nodded, even though he knew Armie couldn’t see him, fidgeting and wrapping the cord of the phone around his finger over and over again. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Ciao, Timmy.” 

He could tell the smile was returning to Armie’s face, and it let him relax, even though he hadn’t even realized he’d gotten tense. “Bye.”

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

The second time Armie called Timothée, it was the evening of Thanksgiving. He knew he’d be home then – they were an American family, to an extent. They’d at least have a dinner. Perhaps not like the fare the Hammer’s had hosted, but still. He paced a hallway on the upper floor, away from the others in the house. It was decorated with the large cabinet of his parent’s accomplishments – degrees, awards, certificates, mementos of previous jobs, the like. Even some of his own accomplishments, rowing championships and prestigious school awards, were in there. It was a haunting memoriam of expectation. 

Armie could tell it was Timothée who answered from the sound of his voice, his warm _Hello?_ upon answering. “Timmy, hey!” He crossed his free arm over and held onto the opposite tricep as he stopped pacing and looked up at the ceiling, “how are you?” 

“Good, yeah, good,” He replied, and then Armie heard muffled voices in the background before he came back, “Hey, everyone wants to say hi, is that cool?”

Armie smiled. _Of course it was okay._

It was Mrs. Chalamet’s voice he heard first, fussing over him like he was her own child who hadn’t been able to come home for breaking – “Armie! Armie, how are you?”

“Well, Mrs. Chalamet, thanks. You?” He asked

“Oh, good! We went to this restaurant in the Latin Quarter for dinner – “ She began to explain before he heard Pauline’s voice interject: _Mom, we live in the Latin Quarter._ He could tell she turned her head away from the phone as her voice got softer but he could still hear her reply to her daughter, _yes, but what if he didn’t know that, Pauline?_ – ”Anyways, Armie, it was great. We’ll have to go with you, if you ever join us.” 

“I’d love that.” Armie agreed, but swallowed harshly. What would a life be like, where that was possible? Was he making it impossible for himself? What would his parents say, if he tried? They weren’t political, but the Chalamet’s were hardly low in status – Professor Chalamet had a tenure at Paris-Sorbonne, a doctorate. The family was not pretentious, but they were educated far enough. Perhaps it was because Armie knew his own limits, and if he went – even just to visit – he was afraid he’d never be able to come back from it. “How’s the book club going?”

“Decently enough, though I’m sure you know how it can be with people like that sometimes.” He did know, all too well. He was raised by them, he would become one of them. She continued in a nearly mocking tone, “ _grandiose!_ ”

“Nichole, are you really making him listen to you about your book club? Come on, the boy is eighteen!” Mr. Chalamet’s voice rang into the phone, “Hi Armie, how’s your holiday? Are you celebrating?”

“Yes, yes,” Armie nodded, “We are. The other American families we know and ourselves, thank you, Professor.”

“Oh, call me Marc, that’s all.” The man insisted, “you’ve done so much for Timothée while he’s been at school, thank you. You’ve been great for him to have around, I’ll say.” He could hear Timothée protest: _Pápa!_

“Oh, no worries at all. Timothée’s great,” Armie protested, the sound of the full _Timothée_ sounded weird coming from him, “and either way, prefect’s honor. I’m always happy to have him around, the pleasure is mine.”

“You keep flattering them, and they’re gonna like you more than they like me.” He hadn’t expected Pauline to say anything – out of all of them, it was probably the weirdest for her, this random friend of her little brother’s interrupting their holiday – but it was warmly welcomed. He’d always wanted a sister.

“Pauline – I hardly think that’s possible. But, I digress.” Armie grinned again, “Anyways, Happy Thanksgiving, you guys. Thanks for saying hi.” 

The chorus of goodbye’s were friendly, and warm, and they made him yearn for a family that greeted him as such every phone call. Finally, it was just Timothée on the phone – “Hey, sorry about that, I didn’t think it would last that long. They just like that I have friends there,” He laughed, “I guess.”

“No, it’s – it’s hardly a bother at all.” Armie insisted, “They’re lovely.”

“They really like you, you must really talk to my mom at school, huh?” It was sort of a joke on Timmy’s part but it was sincere, too. It made him happy, weirdly enough.

“It’s the least I could do.” Armie’s eyes glazed over the cabinet again, “I doubt that they like me as much as I like you.”

There, he’d said it. He hadn’t even meant to. _I like you_ – what it meant, Armie didn’t even know exactly. He didn’t know how Timothée would take it, but any way he did, he supposed he would be okay with. Though, against his better judgement, he found a part of himself wishing Timothée would see it as a sort of confirmation. Timothée didn’t say anything – of course he wouldn’t. Not now, at least. 

“You know, I hate to admit it, but life’s boring without you now.” Timothée changed the subject, “I don’t know what I even did before.”

“Well, I think that goes both ways.” Armie admitted, “at least, more interesting. But maybe that’s just Saoirse, instead.” 

The pair laughed. “You’re a dick, Armie.” 

“Good news, though, break is over after this week” The older boy pointed out, and for the time in a long time, he realized he’d never been quite as excited to go back to school after a holiday. “And the first thing we’re doing when we get in is getting in the car and getting mass quantities of fries, alright?”

“Deal.” Timothée agreed pleasantly, “I’ll you see you then.”

“See ya, Timmy.” 

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

The last time Armie called, Timothée was staying up for his flight. The phone line in his room rang and it nearly scared the life out of him; half naked, tired, and procrasting on the last efforts of packing his things. When Timothée answered, offering a quick Hello?, Armie was quick to respond, “Hey, Timmy, I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“No, no. It’s, it’s fine.” Timothée yawned, but continued, “I’m staying up to sleep on the plane, I fly out at four.” He looked at his clock, _11:57 PM._ He had an hour before he’d have to leave – he always was entirely too early to catch planes, but he had never missed one either. 

“Two hours ahead of me, then. You might get in before I do.” Armie thought about layovers and airplane peanuts and his cramped leg room, anything to distract himself from how happy the thought of seeing Timothée again made him. It hadn’t even been two weeks, what was he turning into? He held his sweater tighter to himself to fight off any chill from where he sat on the balcony of his room. From the street, the sound of motorcycles rushed past, and a small group of college kids seemed to stumble in and out of one another, laughing and ceaseless of any worry.

“Where are you?” Timothée adjusted the phone between his shoulder and face, zipping his suitcase closed, “It’s midnight.”

“Outside, I needed some fresh air.” He shrugged, “I thought I’d call you.”

“You’d think you didn’t have a girlfriend, if you didn't know.” It was meant to be a joke, but the joke seemed to fall flat, deflated with a heavier meaning

“I know.” The older boy admitted, “You’re my best friend, Timmy. And Elizabeth – look, there will be more time to deal with Elizabeth. If you don't want to talk, or something, you know, you can tell me. I just like to talk to you, that’s all. I think you’re genius.” He wanted to say more: that he was talented, and intuitive, and the only person he felt vulnerable with; as if Timothée could see through his soul, and into his heart, and that was all that mattered. But he didn’t. It was beyond intellect, but perhaps _genius_ was the best word he could conjure for it.

The phrase was a boulder – _there would be more time to deal with Elizabeth_ ; it meant one thing simply. His time with Timothée was confined, measured, and ticking down to that expiration date of May 31st. There was a goodbye set in stone. This wasn’t a friendship you brought to college, this was something more. It burned, and it burned bright, and something was bound to be there to extinish it when it threatened what had been placed there before. 

“No, that’s not – ” Timothée protested, “That’s not it. I like that you called, of course. It was, it was just a joke.”

“I know.” Armie reassured, “I know, Timmy, I know.” 

He knew what he felt, what he thought. He was sorry he couldn’t do more, he’d regret it forever. 

A moment. Silence. Another one. “Hey, look, I’ve got to go. I leave soon, and you know, I’ve still got to get some shit together.” Timothée tried to stop himself from stumbling over his own words

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Armie nodded, trying to keep himself composed. His chest felt tight, his breaths deep, “I’ll see you back in the states, okay?”

“Yeah, see you then.” Timothée was curt, another way of keeping himself together

“Ciao, Timmy.” Armie had stood up from the patio chair he’d previously occupied, staring out into the lights of Rome, the Vatican, in all it’s holy glory, glowing in the distance. 

From his own room in Paris, Timothée looked down and out his window onto the courtyard below – the foundation’s display of horses reared and flying cherubs pointed down, pouring water out of their mouths into the pool below, while the gallic rooster pearched proudly at the height of it, lit up softly and mesmerized him as he watched the water swirl, making him smile absent-mindedly as his eyes fought the sudden and unexplained urge to well up themselves. “Au revoir, Armie.” 

The line went dead. Armie rested his forearms on the railing of his balcony, his head hung over the street below, and all at once, he felt his heart swell just as it was crushed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got a tumblr! don't really know how i'm gonna use it yet but it's @/gaychalamet if anyone wants to follow me over there, message me, send me asks etc. that's where i'll be in the meantime between updates!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought about posting this yesterday, but realized that in my space of privilege, it was right for me to instead stay muted, listen to and amplify black voices, and observe #blackouttuesday. 
> 
> black lives matter. we must do better. 
> 
> for resources to support the movement, go to https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/

Armie looked at the letter in his shaking hands, the Brown University envelope torn abandoned on his desk. He nearly couldn’t believe the words; _Congratulations!_ – they were delighted to inform him that he’d been accepted into the Brown University Class of 2000. _They looked forward to welcoming him to Brown in the fall._ He made himself study each word carefully again, as if he was going to find a mistake, something wrong in the letter. But there wasn’t. It was real.

There was no longer any chance at prolonging anything, no more excuses. His rowing profile was stacked after assistant coaching throughout the year (and they all knew they were about to win the championships come summer), his academics were solid enough, and now, he had gotten into Brown: he was going to leave in May. Leave Archibald, leave his life, leave Timmy. He had wasted so much time – he was _still_ wasting so much time. There was hardly any use in denying it now. 

He would manage to deal with Elizabeth, he would tell her about Brown and slowly begin distancing himself. They would still be together, of course, he was afraid they’d always be together – she was going to Smith, a seven sisters’ school just hardly two hours away – but for now, he’d manage to negotiate an unspoken break. She was still pissed he wouldn’t let her into the friend group, but resigned herself to the fact that they both knew she would have him indefinitely; his friends only had a few months, at most. Timothée only had a few months; whatever was going on between them, she didn’t know, or at least she pretended not to. She would come out of it with the ring in five years, either way. 

Armie didn’t know how to handle it, and keeping himself in check had become increasingly difficult. Why was he insisting on hurting them, insisting on drawing this line between _almost and never_? He only wished that he knew. He had put himself in some kind of cage; built some kind of wall he’d never climb over. But Timothée was right there, a rope slung over, ready to scale the brick and climb into his bed, if only he’d let him: he knew what they’d never have. He knew there would be a heartbreak at the end, no possibility of running off together to a small flat in Stuttgart, or somewhere. They’d never be together, never see the world outside of Archibald’s fences. But he was still there, anyways. 

Perhaps they both accepted that, neither of them expecting anything of the sort beyond a chummy friendship in public and a tender embrace in the shadows. Even in the shadows, though, Armie didn’t know if he could shake off what was holding him back. He was afraid of shame. More afraid of regret. In twenty years, would he bring his own son back to this school? To this hall? Would he see Timothée’s room out of the corner of his eye? Would every feeling hit him, capture him, capsize him? Would it be from a could’ve been, or would he actually stop being a coward – even for just one moment, one kiss, one night – and would there be something there to remember beyond longing?

He screwed his eyes shut – he didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to submit to reality, didn’t want to know. He buried himself in bed, his eyes burned with the first tears over Timothée he ever allowed himself to cry, and bundled himself in the boy’s sweater, trying to find any consolation he could in the same thing that was tearing him apart. 

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

Timothée was the one who went to wake Armie up the next morning, the early Saturday light waking him up before it had woken up his older counterpart. The last spare weekend before winter exams slammed into their lives and overtook them completely. He had let the door stay cracked open the night before, the younger boy quietly slipped into the room. Before he actually managed to get Armie up, it was the paper on the desk beside him that piqued Timothée’s interest, drawing him over to the desk instead of the bed. He recognized the emblem immediately, and though he knew Armie was going to have to leave in six months no matter where he went, he selfishly wanted it to be an excuse to find some way to prolong his presence. The first word knocked the breath out of him, a single _Congratulations_ , and he was crushed. He wanted to smack himself for ever thinking otherwise.

He looked over at Armie, asleep peacefully, rays of light coming in from the window to shine through and lighten his lashes. One had fallen out, resting on his cheek, and the younger boy wanted to reach out, carefully, and brush it from the soft skin where it laid. Instead, he placed the paper back down onto his desk where it had been before and then turned to slip back out of the room; as if he’d never been there. That was it, that was what Timothée would be to Armie once he left, once he went to Brown and Elizabeth followed nearby and he would be everything everyone has always wanted him to be. He’d be a mere speck in his life – maybe he’d receive a wedding announcement, if he was lucky – and it’d be as though he never actually existed. He didn’t go back into his room, rather he stood at the window, looking at the freshly fallen snow and the lawn of which it covered, extending its way into the woods. Timothée didn’t even realize Armie had woken up too until he heard his voice from behind him.

 _It snowed_ , he remarked. It nearly made Timothée jump, but once he realized who it was, he simply agreed. He liked the way Armie looked in the morning, bundled in his sweater and donned in cotton pajama pants hanging off his hips – uninhibited, worryless. _They should go outside_ , he continued, _bundle up, take a walk._  
Timothée wanted to say no, to start his retreat from that moment in, but he couldn’t make himself. Instead, he nodded, _sure_. 

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

The pair of them walked together carefully across the lawn they’d been staring at thirty minutes before, silent other than the crunching of the snow under their feet. They were silent, though it wasn’t awkward, watching each other’s breaths become visible from their mouths until they made it into the forest. Who knew if someone was watching out their window like they just had been? If anything seemed amiss, it would send off the alarm bells amongst the school population. People would talk, and they always talked about Armie Hammer, but this time it would be different. They took care in what direction they went – there was a secluded area people would go to in order to steal a smoke in the woods, it was a well known secret around the students. It would seem normal for them to go there. Perhaps that’s where they were actually headed, Timothée wasn’t entirely sure. 

Once they managed to make it into the woods, Armie didn’t seem to know where he was actually going, either. They ducked through the tree branches, stepped over fallen logs, following the path of the frozen stream that ran through the area. When Armie mistepped, stepped down on what seemed like more solid ground but actually was just deeper snow and a dip in the land, it nearly scared Timothée. It didn’t faze Armie, he tumbled a small bit before realizing what had just happened and laughing, letting himself fall back into the snow. 

He looked up at Timothée, who still stood a few feet higher than him, and whose face was being mildly obstructed by the sun shining down on them through the trees. He reached his hand out, as if to get help to get out, before proceeding to pull him closer down into the small area. In the same way Armie had, Timothée stumbled and fell nearly on top of him. He yelped, and Armie fell back laughing again, his body flush against the snow as he looked up at the tree tops. Timothée couldn’t help but laugh too, propped up on his side with one elbow facing towards Armie. 

The moment made him realize exactly how much he'd be losing, and how soon. Brown would come, and whisk him away come the end of the year, and then what? He knew the answer – _nothing_. He couldn’t stand the idea of nothing. 

Armie turned his neck so that he was facing Timothée, smiling at him. Armie readjusted himself too, propping himself up to support his weight on his elbows. Timothée watched him, and he knew. He was going to lose him, whether that be in May, or if he tried something today. Even if he tried, and was rejected, at least he wouldn’t have to wonder what if. There would be an answer in his response, and Timothée needed that answer. He needed Armie to have some stance before he lost him. 

It was slow, the way Armie had been slow to hug him before Thanksgiving, testing the waters. He sat up more, though not all the way, bringing one arm around to Armie’s other side, his other moving to hold onto his waist. He looked in his eyes, searching for something, anything. Armie stared back at him intently, Timothée could see his adam's apple move with how sharply he swallowed, taking in a shaky breath, but nothing told him to stop. 

Timothée moved his face just the slightest bit and before he could stop himself, found his lips on Armie’s. It was soft at first, combating the dryness of their lips from the cold, and though Armie didn’t seem to have an initial shock, he was tentative. Slow, unsure, careful, as if he was expecting to move too suddenly and wake up from a dream or ruin the moment. Timothée pressed in more, though barely, as if to say _this is in your hands now, but know that I want it all._

Armie took the cue. His hand, which had previously rested near Timothée’s in the snow, came to pull his face in closer. Most of it was obstructed by the glove he was wearing, but his fingertips were wet, and as they pressed gently against his skin, it felt like Timothée’s entire body had been set on fire. He let himself melt into him. He could die then, from the cold or a freak self-combustion or the end of the world, and he knew he’d be satisfied. 

Timothée knew that Armie would go back to Rome soon, that he’d tell his parents about Brown, that the rest of his life would begin, that his heart would break. But it didn’t matter now. Let the world be damned, let the Ivy’s pry him away, none of it meant a thing. He had this moment, this Armie – which was better than any Armie would ever be, before or after, with anyone else – and though it would never truly be enough, this alone could carry him to the ends of his dying days. 

“Happy Birthday, Timmy.” Armie whispered, his forehead pressed against his own, his thumb finding a resting place on the lips he just kissed Armie’s breath, warm against his own.

Yes, he could die happy now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want to reach me in between updates more succinctly, message me, send me asks etc., you can reach me on tumblr @/gaychalamet(:
> 
> –t


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2k+ words of character and plot development that explains armie's past? from me? at a decent time? wow, who would have thought!
> 
> anyways, here's this. enjoy y'all. i promise there's a method to my madness with this chapter, i swear. 
> 
> –t

Timothée’s birthday celebration was held in January, after winter break had come and gone – crowded in the same circular booth the group of friends had first congregated in. Saoirse’s hair freshly pink, Florence still bickering with Arthur over nearly everything in a way that had almost become enduring, Oscar and Charlie with a stack of what was clearly books wrapped to give Timothée between them, Yates (who’s birthday it also technically was, though he seemed to hate it) gladly letting Timothée take all the attention – it was the formulated chaos they’d come to know.

And yet, even then, all Timothée could focus on was Armie, and the hand which rested on his knee under the table and the ankle that hooked around his own. 

They hadn’t talked about the forest – what it meant, what it was. Almost immediately afterwards came exams, and after exams, they were back across Europe. It was as though they didn’t dare mention it over the phone, either, and so it went unspoken. Three weeks, with nothing said. He hoped it hadn’t been a one off thing, even if he had begun to resign himself to the possibility. But Armie didn’t hate him, he didn’t show disgust or rebuke. He had kissed back. 

_Where was his present, then?_ Saoirse had pointed her question at Armie, who let go of Timothée hand underneath the table to point at a small box that was hidden from her view  
_Right there._ Armie nodded towards the pile in the middle, _But he had already given Timothée his first present before break._

Timothée’s breath hitched in his throat, it was the first time Armie had referred to the kiss, and in front of everyone? Florence didn’t notice Timothée’s reaction, instead rebuking him immediately: _That wasn’t fair!_ She reminded him they had all agreed to have this party together.

Arthur looked at the box closely, quickly coming to his own conclusion: if he knew Armie and could judge the box, he dared to say that it was a watch, _Cartier._ Armie flipped him off.  
_He couldn’t be serious,_ Saoirse immediately protested, _Fuck that, Armie. That actually wasn’t fair._ Timothée was just struggling to compute the information that was being dumped.  
_Daniel had gotten one for him the first birthday he knew him for,_ Armie explained, _it was paying the good fortune forward._

The energy of the table shifted for a moment at the mention of whoever Daniel was, mainly amongst the cohort of Oscar, Charlie and Yates – a tightness Timothée didn’t want to know. Instead he focused on what Wilhelm had begun to say again in order to shift from the mention of the name, _If that’s what this gift was, he could hardly imagine what the first one was._ It was a joke, but it made Timothée want to curl up and hide.

 _It was a book,_ Armie reassured. It was a lie, of course, but Timothée knew what book, and he knew why. Oscar and Charlie shared a worried look between each other that was almost comical. _Tender is the Night._ He told them that he had found a rare edition.  
Oscar seemed to relax – they clearly hadn’t gotten a repeat, but even if they had, it wouldn’t have mattered, it was a coverup, after all – _Fitzgerald’s best._  
_And his most depressing,_ Florence sighed and reached for a fry, _Jesus._

Armie’s arm fell back below the table. He reached for Timothée again, squeezing the boy’s hand. This was it, their secret. And yet in a way, Armie had openly acknowledged it, albeit in code. This was the way they were; a careful dance of things that nearly made Timothée’s head spin.

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

Timothée sat outside of the Headmaster’s Office nervously, trying to twiddle his thumbs as a way to distract himself from driving himself insane staring at the frosted glass of the locked room on the other side of the door. Armie rounded the corner with unaffected bravado, casting a smile over down to him as he sat down next to him. 

_Timmy!_ he hardly seemed off-put, _did he know why they were there?_  
Timothée shook his head, _did he think it had anything to do with the forest?_  
Mentioning the forest seemed to make Armie more somber, he asked if Timothée had told anyone.  
He shook his head again, _No._  
_Then they were fine._ He called him Timmy again, nudged him with his shoulder and tried to smile again, _He promised._

“Look, it isn’t, “ Armie stopped speaking, as if trying to find the words, and then began to whisper, “It’s not to be cruel, you know that. You – You’re my best friend. But this is real life, we have to be careful. There are stakes here, we have to watch what we say. The truth doesn’t matter as much.”

Timothée looked down at his wrist, the _Must de Cartier_ Tank that Wilhelm had correctly predicted, and readjusted the strap to fix the way the face of the watch was directed. He looked over at Armie, and noticed the nearly matching one on his wrist. For the first time since the previous week that it had been gifted to him, Timothée dared to let his mind wander to the gifter: Daniel. Perhaps that was why Armie acted the way he did – he had already been through it. He already knew, and so, he managed the show of popularity, charisma, self-assuredness and dazzling smiles to keep it at bay. To fake it until he made it. 

Before he had any more time to think, Headmaster Hawthorne rounded the corner from the connecting corridor, and greeted them. _Mr. Hammer, Mr. Chalamet,_ He reached for his key, unlocking the office as the boys nodded to his presence and then stood up. He explained to them that he had been caught up in a conversation on his way over, and then extended the door open for them, “Come in.”

The office was large, dark wood and bookshelves on every wall. The desk taking up the center back third, and two upholstered leather chairs in front of them, which the boys sat down in. From the door, another knock. Timothée looked back to see the black sleeve of the unknown person on the other side of the door – the school Chaplin, Father Albert. The younger man entered the room, lean and solemn faced, dark hair and full beard that made him look ageless despite being only in his early thirties, his white collar bright against the black of his outfit. 

_Good, he was there._ The headmaster ushered the man in, who greeted the three of them and then came around to stand behind the large desk opposite of Armie and Timothée.

Hawthorne adjusted himself in his own upholstered grand desk chair and faced the two boys. “Now, you both know here at Archibald we hold the brotherhoods formed here sacred. We believe it is what makes intelligent and well-adjusted boys successful and well-connected men, but brotherhood has limits, and there have been concerns among the faculty... “ 

Timothée looked straight ahead, but out of the corner of his eye watched as Armie readjusted himself and stiffened at the comment. “Based on what?” He asked, “about what?”

“Well, we know you’re very close, with Mr. Chalamet here, is all, and with your past – “ The old man began 

“My past? Of what? Having a friend?” Armie asked, “With all due respect, headmaster, I think the school’s past should concern you more.”

Timothée knew what he was talking about – the allegations from 1990, which the school had spent hoards of money to deal with, to cover up.

“Mr. Hammer, I,“ Hawthorne sighed, “your mannerisms have shifted. Who you hang out with, what you do, we’re just concerned is all. You were doing so well last year – “

“No. This is, this is absurd. I’m paying you money to educate me, not spy on my social functioning. I have friends again, that’s it. It’s normal. You’re just freaked out because you're scared of Daniel.” He objected, “have you talked to my parent’s about this?”

“No. We’re not scared of – no.” The headmaster shook his head, and then nodded at both of the boys, “We wanted to check with you boys, first. Mr. Chalamet, do you have anything you want to say?”

“No,” Timothée shook his head, “I, I don’t know what’s going on. Armie and I are just friends, if that’s what you’re trying to imply here.” Which technically, wasn’t a lie. Technically. He remembered Armie’s words, in the sake of self preservation, _the truth didn’t matter as much._

“Right, then. I have to go.” He began to stand up, looking back to the chaplin, “Father Albert, I suppose you should still talk to them.”

The collared man nodded, but didn’t say a word until Hawthorne had left the office and closed the door behind him. Immediately, Armie turned to the man, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Father Albert.”

“Armie – ” It was the first time Timothée had heard a teacher at Archibald call a student by their first name, but it seemed like it wasn’t the first time they’d had a conversation like this. “I know what happened to the McLaren boy was upsetting for you – ”

“It was. But I’ve dealt with it. This, ” he gestured as though to the meeting they had just had, “has nothing to do with me. You have guilt over Daniel, because you guys abandoned him, because of something he couldn’t control – “

“Armie, I am of the Episcopalian tradition.” Albert stated, as if that meant something. Maybe it did, Timothée didn’t know. His family believed in books, and the arts, not God. 

“Exactly, and so you’re ashamed. You’re projecting that onto me, because I was his friend, and you’re trying to get a do-over.” Timothée had never seen Armie mad before, but this was what he figured was as close as he’d see. He knew they’d lie if any questions about the nature of their relationship were brought up, but this didn’t seem like it was for show. Whatever this was, it held truth in it. “But we all know that if it was true, you would throw us to the wolves the same way you threw him. You know as well as I do that they don’t let those types of things equate to Archibald.” 

“Armand.” The priest’s face softened, he stepped forward. Timothée stayed silent, watching this unfold, as if he had stumbled into something much larger than he

“I’m done with this conversation, Father Albert. You will not continue with this.” Armie stood up, towering a decent few inches taller than the man, and then made his way to the door before turning around to look back at him, “Put this to rest, now.”

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

Timothée didn’t try to chase after Armie. _Be careful_ ; The words rung in his head. He went back to class, dragged himself through the rest of the day. Armie didn’t come to dinner, and the absence felt like a void of space in Timothée’s existence. What would it be like when Armie went away? When his absence was normal, when someone else would take his seat as if he’d never been there – just as Timothée had done to some other alum who had come and gone. Just as they all had done. He excused himself early. 

The dorms were nearly empty, everyone spread out across campus – in the dining hall, or outside, maybe some of the upperclassmen had left to go into town – wherever they could grab some free time amongst the closely kept schedule the school kept them on. At the end of the hallway, Armie’s door was cracked. Timothée knocked, from inside, he could see the older boy sitting on his bed, _Who was it?_

Timothée responded, it was just him. Armie could tell by his identity by his voice, and beckoned him in. 

He shut the door behind him, going to sit down on the desk chair next to the bed. _Was he okay?_  
_No._ Armie sighed, putting aside the book and then turning his body more to face him. _But, that was expected._  
Timothée nodded, not sure what else to say before Armie continued. _He was sorry._ He apologized, _his denials were for protection. He didn’t mean to hurt him._  
He shook his head – _he didn’t hurt him._ He understood why. _Did he want to talk about it?_

 _Not really._ Armie looked away from Timothée. _He – Daniel was,_ He stopped himself, as if he was trying to figure out what word was best, _Daniel wasn’t something to worry about._ But there were lessons to be learned from it. _What happened was the reason they had to be like they were._

Whatever happened to Daniel McLaren, that was what Armie feared. And Timothée had seen enough to know why – the conclusions made from the faculty on nothing more than a carefully constructed friendship were damning to that. What if they knew more? They couldn’t, that was the simple answer. 

_He was wearing his watch,_ Armie observed. Timothée nodded, he had worn it everyday since he’d given it to him. He watched as Armie absentmindedly reached down to run his left hand over his own. A sinking feeling overcame Timothée; in a few years, would he be Armie? Would he still wear his too, denying feelings to anyone who asked, greving over the loss of him in his life? 

Armie looked at him, a bittersweet smile overtook his expression. He leaned forward, taking the younger boy's hand in his own, raising it to his lips to kiss his knuckle gently. Timothée closed his eyes, letting himself just have the moment. They were too far gone anyways – his heart would end up broken in the end. He could only hope the detriment wouldn’t destroy him completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> explanation on the whole episcopalian statement from albert, for those who don't know the context, because i didn't find it necessary/right during that scene to include it in the story – american episcopalian's were one of the first anglican provinces (at least in america) to begin accepting homosexuality over time, starting in the late 70's. 
> 
> to reach me in between updates with any questions, asks, inquires etc. follow me on tumblr @/gaychalamet x


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: as you may have noticed, I changed the rated for this book to mature. That is for several reasons within the conversation of the first part of this chapter, which includes the topics of: HIV and AIDS, death, asthma attacks (very briefly), and the use of a slur. If any of these bother you or might trigger you, feel free to skip to the second part of the chapter after the "࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐" break. If you do, and want a synopsis of what transpires in the first part of the chapter – as it is all intentional, and has meaning for both the plot and the characters – feel free to message me on tumblr (@/gaychalamet) and I'll gladly catch you up while avoiding the sensitive topics as much as possible.
> 
> again, i promise there is a method for my madness here, and this a cumulation of much of the angst for a while. 
> 
> – t

The trees passed by in a blur as Timothée leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, watching the white of the snow blend with the green as Yates drove, following behind Armie’s Cabriolet through the winding roads. 

The trip had been thrown together in the past week to get off campus for the long weekend they got for MLK day, packing everyone up into two cars and heading up to the Hammer family’s lake house on Sebago. It had been posed to the group on what seemed like Armie’s whim – a boy’s trip up to Maine – but Timothée knew. He’d been itching to get off campus since they had the conversation with Hawthorne and Albert in the headmaster’s office. 

It was a short drive, two hours if someone went slowly, and while the rest of the boys piled into Yates’s ‘95 land cruiser, Armie leading the charge – a personal human gps with his summer clothes packed into his small backseat to switch out with the winter ones he stored at the house. Timothée was the only passenger in the car still awake besides Weston at the wheel; Oscar, Charlie and Arthur laid on top of each other asleep in the backseat. 

He kept his eyes trained on the maroon of Armie’s car in front of him, and when he couldn’t take the silence of the car or the absence of not knowing any longer, Timothée asked Yates the question he’d sworn he never would, _Who was he?_ He didn’t think he had to say his name, Timothée figured he’d already get it, but just in case, he added, _Daniel._

 _He was Armie’s best friend._ Yates sighed, stole a glance over to Timothée and then turned back to the road. Timothée watched his hands as they seemed to grab onto the wheel more tightly, and the rest of his body seemed to stiffen. _He was diagnosed with HIV when he was 16, but he already had a compromised immune system._

Out of all the things Timothée had imagined had happened to Daniel since the meeting, he’d never let himself come to the conclusion that was facing him now. He knew where Yates was headed, and it broke his heart. It made him ill. He cursed himself for prying. It wasn’t something he should know, this wasn’t something he should have been forcing Yates to relive. It was the anger that came next – the school knew, and yet in that meeting, they had made Armie relive it, too. 

Yates continued, _He didn't know all that much, he was only a freshman at the time._ He only knew Daniel because of rowing, he explained. _Most of it he found out later._

Timothée looked over at him, but the boy avoided his gaze. Instead, his eyes were locked on the road as he continued: Daniel graduated in ‘94, and managed to get to NYU for a year. _But the AIDS came quickly,_ Yates confirmed what Timothée already knew was coming. 

Daniel died the summer after Armie’s junior year. Armie wasn’t allowed to say goodbye. _They tried to keep it a secret_ ; the school, he meant. _Almost no one knew he even had HIV._ Yates didn’t know until after he died, he told him, and even still, most of the boys weren’t told anything. The ones who were, were told he died from an asthma attack. _The only reason the school cared so much to cover it up and keep him at Archibald after the diagnosis was because he was important to the athletics program._

Timothée understood now, why Armie had been so upset when Hawthorne had pretended to care. It was nothing more than the institution trying to cover for themselves. Armie was a liability, and they had to keep an eye on him to keep him in check. He was right – it wasn’t about him and Timothée. It was something else entirely. But if it was to become about them, they would be over. What power did they hold against those kinds of people? Virtually none. 

Yates noticed as Timothée’s gaze shifted back through the windshield to Armie. _From what he knew,_ he told him, _Armie had gone through some kind of therapy before he came back his senior year, and after, he never talked about what had happened._  
Timothée nodded, and then dared to ask, _Were they...?_  
_No. He didn’t think so._ Yates shook his head. Armie was young for his year, he only turned eighteen in August. When he did, he got tested. He was clean. _If they had been — he wouldn’t have been as lucky. But he –_

He stopped. They both knew it wasn’t their place to speculate on what Armie may or may not have felt towards Daniel. _What happened to Daniel shook them all_ , he stated. The school tried to make boys forget, they never addressed it, but they knew. They never forgot. They still knew. _They say 1995 was the worst year for AIDS deaths, but it’s more than just a statistic to them. To Armie. It was more._  
_Who were they?_ Timothée asked, this abstract “they” that knew. _After all, it hadn’t been like they were all friends then, and if they had lied to most of the students..._

Yates sighed, finally looking to the younger boy, realizing he truly didn’t know. “Don’t you know why we all get on so well? Have you seriously been so wrapped up in Armie you didn’t realize it?” He asked, “Why do you think we get on so well – even though we make absolutely no sense?” 

Timothée stared at him. He knew he should know, but his mind was going so far into overdrive over the conservation that he didn’t know what to do. Instead, Yates blurted it out as Timothée continued his silence: “Jesus Christ, Timothée, we’re gay.”

“Gay?” He didn’t know how he managed to get the question out. He couldn’t even feel himself form the word, his body on autopilot.

“Gay, Timothée.” Yates realized he’d have to spell it out. Perhaps he thought that gay meant happy, like the 18th century, but if that was the case, surely Yates was clearly an outlier. “We’re all cocksuckers.”

The word shocked Timothée, made his head almost spin. He’d only ever thought of Armie, golden rays and brilliant smile and affection that could make anyone feel like they were the most important person on earth. He knew it was gay, perhaps, but that was never what occupied his mind. Armie did, if that was _gay_ so be it. He especially had never thought about it as cocksucker. 

But he realized it then, that was what reality was. It was 1997: Clinton had his Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, George H.W. Bush had stood in his White House and watched as AIDS devastated and tore through the community as he turned his back to them, and cocksucker was the truth in the world behind his infatuation. His polite tenderness with Armie in hidden sentiments of Archibald’s halls didn’t really have a place in the real world – the real world was cocksucker and oppression and every single _why can’t we_ became clear and Yates had ruined Timothée’s life with one word. He looked into the rearview mirror into the backseat where Arthur and Charlie and Oscar lay on each other’s shoulders, peacefully sleeping. _Cocksuckers._ It was going to be the rest of their lives and it made Timothée want to tear his very skin off and throw himself out the car and run into the forest and die there, because it seemed as though that was the easiest thing to do now. 

Cocksucker. 

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

Armie’s lake house was exactly what Timothée had been expecting. A three-story structure of dark wood, roof coming to a point and red trim that pulled together the look, tucked away in the woods of Maine and overlooking the water of Lake Sebago down below a mild hill, complete with a private dock, boat house, and the whole nine yards. 

By the time Yates had pulled into the driveway and shaken the other boys out of their slumber, Armie stood in the doorframe waiting to greet them. Timothée climbed out of the passenger seat, pulling his backpack with him and looking up to get a full view of the place before walking up the porch steps and into the house, brushing against Armie as he went. 

An open foyer greeted him, with a stairwell in the middle of the room that branched out in either direction at the upper landing, leading into what he figured were the bedroom areas. On his right, another door led into the entrance hall he was standing in, most likely from the garage and to his left, a room dominated by a pool table. He ventured around the stairwell to what he discovered was the family room, though it was more centered to the left behind where the garage was while a fireplace acted as a sort of separation between the space and the dining room and kitchen to the right of the space. 

Amongst of his discovery of the place, the rest of the boys spilled into the space. Armie outstretched his arms, welcomed them and then continued, “Oscar and Charlie, your room is upstairs to the right, facing the lake – there’s a daybed and a trundle, so do as you will. Yates, Arthur, your room is across from them, it’s two fulls in there, so both of you giants should be good.” Then he looked to turn at Timmy, “And I was going to let you stay in the bunk room, but it’s currently being used as a disaster of a storage unit for my brother, apparently, so you’ll have to crash in the attic room with me. The couch up there is criminally comfortable, so I’ll take either or.” 

As the boys dispersed, Armie turned to Timothée and smiled before nudging him to follow the rest of them. The attic was accessed through another stairwell tucked in the hallway the other boys rooms were, opening up into an open space, a bed pushed into the opposite far corner and a living room set up taking up the majority of the rest of the room. The pair dumped their bags down against the wall, and Timothée couldn’t help but smile. Smile at Armie’s smile. The fact that he could astonished him. If Timothée had gone through what he had, he’d have sworn off the world and never smiled again. 

The moment was cut short by a hollar up the stairs, a quick, _where was the food, fucker?_ from Arthur at the base of the stairwell  
Armie leaned down over the railing to shout back, _in Windham!_ – the town fifteen minutes away between the house and Portland. He was going to go in a while once everything was set up, he explained, _but if they were eager to go then, the list was on the kitchen counter_

Arthur groaned, but Armie just laughed. He retreated to his bag, pulled out his Nokia and ran down the stairs. Timothée watched over the railing as Armie handed the phone to the boy, and told him to call the house number if they needed anything. _There was a map in the glove box of his car if they needed it._

Timothée heard Arthur whine again, but nonetheless, the voices became increasingly distant until he heard the front door open and close and Armie come back up the stairs. He smiled at him again, _how was the drive up, then?_  
He bit his tongue. The last thing he wanted to do was make Armie go through the conversation again. He nodded instead, "Good. It was good. Nothing much, everyone else besides Yates and I slept the entire time."

Armie tilted his head, leaning his body weight against his arm, which rested on the bannister of the stairwell. “You’re lying.” 

“No. No, “ Timothée shook his head, “ I – it’s nothing.”

“You’re really bad at this, you know,” Armie stood up again, walking closer to him in the middle of the room, “You can’t lie to your partner in crime.”

Armie smiled, and Timothée wished he could evaporate from the moment. He stepped back, Armie frowned. “Look, Armie, if you don’t – “ He looked down, shook his head again, sighed. “If you want out of this, I understand. I mean, you’ve got so much going for you, and…”  


He stopped when he looked back up, noticing how intense Armie’s gaze had turned. “What did he tell you?” Armie asked. Timothée avoided making eye contact, muttering nothings and rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. Armie nodded, as if realizing exactly what had happened, “you know about Daniel.”

“Armie, I didn’t know. I,” He stepped forward his eyes pleading, his arm nearly outstretched, “No one should have to go through that shit, man. And I don’t know what happened between you, but I see the way you look at that watch, the way that conversation fucked with you, and I don’t want to be the reason you have to risk anything, or feel like you have to put yourself in a position to get hurt again for me.”

“Timmy…” Armie’s eyes softened, his face falling and his eyes began to glaze, “I – I loved Daniel. And I think that’s obvious, and I think maybe he cared about me too, but I can’t live in that. Timmy, I didn’t say anything about him for a reason. _This_ isn’t about him.”

Timothée looked away, biting his lower lip in as if to stop himself from saying something he’d regret too quickly. “What is this about then?” His eyes are near threatening to cry too, his voice breaking, his mouth heaving exasperated sighs, “Because, fuck, Armie. I kiss you, and it seems great, but all you do is talk in code _all the fucking time_ and then there’s Elizabeth, and… and you’re leaving in five months, and after that we both know I’ll never see you again. So I’ll just be here, heartbroken, right? And you know that.”

Armie tears his gaze away again, hands moving to interlock his fingers behind his head. He turned around, looking up at the ceiling. “What do you want, Timothée?”

“I – “ Timothée retracts into himself, his arms falling to his sides, not sure what to say. 

Armie stood still, his head kept tilted up, staring unwaveringly at the sloping ceiling. He asked again, _What did he want?_ “I mean, if there was nothing else.” He explained, “if it was just you, and I, and nothing outside of this moment mattered – what would you want?”

Timothée felt frozen, not knowing what to say. He just stared ahead, across the room at Armie’s tall physique turned away from him as he awaited the answer. Inside of him, something managed to finally break, and without realizing it, hears himself say, “I want you to kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, along with what I said above, if you want to send asks/messages/chat with me in between updates, you can find me at @/gaychalamet on tumblr! x


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a bit longer than usual for the update – apparently i haven't written anything without any sort of angst in so longer i think i almost forgot how!
> 
> this version of the chapter isn't as carefully edited as per usual because i've been writing and rewriting it so much that i think if i look at it again before i publish it i'm literally going to go insane? so, just a heads up for y'all going into it, that's whats up with that! 
> 
> –t

“I want you to kiss me.”

Timothée’s words rang in the empty house. Armie froze, his mind racing a million miles per second, his eyes screwed shut as he tried to remain his composure. He finally sighs, lets his arms fall back down to his side and looks over his shoulder to find Timothée hadn’t moved either.

They paused like that for a moment, breaths heavy, overwhelmed in a buzz of emotion in the air. It’s as if they had gone through every stage of grief in one split, synchronized second and in a brief flash of clarity, Armie knew. Before he could register his actions entirely, he had rushed to Timmy, closing in the space between them. His hands came to rest on either side of his face – his thumbs resting on his cheek and the rest of his hand coming up along his jawline for his fingers to rest behind his ear – and his kiss holding the fury of every emotion he felt but couldn’t speak of before. 

Timothée hardly missed a beat, his hands finding their way to knot themselves up in his hair. Armies tongue swiped across his lips, and they parted as though to give him access to overtake his mouth entirely. He stumbled back, Armie following, their mouths remaining steady in their contact as he found himself backed up against the wall. One of Armie’s hands let go of Timothée’s face to flatten against the wall beside them to give him stability, leaning into him. Timothée’s knee came up slightly to bend in between Armie’s legs, arching towards him to meet his body to the older boy’s. 

He pulled back, leaving Timothée to gasp and let his head fall back against the wall. Armie moved his assault of kisses over; to his cheekbones, his jawline, down his neck to where the collar of his school button-up folded over. His hands abandoned their previous positions, moving to unbutton the first few buttons and pushing the shirt out of the way to get access to his chest. He gripped his shoulder in one hand as the other found it’s way back to his face. Timothée let out a groan, his right hand slipping out of Armie’s hair and down his torso, slipping underneath his untucked shirt to grasp at the warm skin of his waist, as Armie sucked on a section of chest just above his heart until he was sure that there’d be a hickey there come morning. 

When he pulled back and Timothée could feel his hot breath on his chest, he pulled his other hand from his hair and brought it down to Armie’s chin to bring his face up to his own again. He kissed him again, this time more gingerly before hearing the front door open downstairs.

Armie snapped away looking over his shoulder as he heard Charlie announce their presence from the foyer, turning back to Timothée with wide eyes. Timothée laughed quietly, a breathy amused exhale, grasping at his shirt to pull him closer again for another brush of the lips. 

_Fuck._ Armie whispered, barely audible  
_What?_ Timothée asked, head tilted in question  
Armie looked down, his laughing nearly mirroring Timothée’s moments before. Timothée followed his gaze, and it made him laugh, too: _he was hard._

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

Armie didn’t know why Arthur had insisted on groceries early when the thing he was most excited about was the three boxes of pizza he toted into the kitchen proudly when he got back. Though, he didn’t mind it – he’d allowed himself to feel more during their brief absence than he had since Daniel died. He especially didn’t mind it now, stealing glances at Timothée, wrapped up in one of his large sweaters and clad in light jeans, who scarfed down his fourth slice of pizza as Arthur had caught up to the same number of beers. He knew Timothée was stealing glances at him, too. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Armie felt like he could breathe. 

This was it – the peak of his life. It didn’t even bother him, he supposed, that he was peaking in high school, and in such a mundane way. A lake house in the dead of winter, barely passable pizza, his friends, Timothée. This was it, this was the piece of paradise he’d so desperately clamored for, finally arrived. He shut his eyes, as if trying to snapshot the moment and file it away forever. When he opened his eyes, Oscar caught his attention in a quick glance. The two boys shared a gentille moment of passing smiles. For all his efforts, the one person Armie could not lie to was Oscar; _he knew._

He got up then, making his way over across the room to the living room to turn on the laps as the sun disappeared outside, and didn’t make it back, instead throwing himself on the light blue couch he’d spent countless holiday days wasting away on naps. Eventually it seemed the rest of the boys joined him, drawn by the rerun of _Golden Girls_ he’d put on and the food coma they had lulled themselves into. Timothée sat on the opposite end of the couch, stretching his legs to meet Armie’s in the middle and intertwine themselves up. Armie looked at the other boys – Arthur half asleep spread across the loveseat and the other two boys occupying the armchairs – and let his hand fall in between the back of the couch and Timothée’s leg. Perhaps it was the beer, or the fairly dark room, or the fact that in that moment, he simply no longer cared; but against his better judgement, reached his fingers to Timothée’s ankle, grazing the curves of his bones before resting his hand on the bridge where his leg and foot met. 

It was a simple gesture, one no one could see, but it was there. _Touch._ The contact innocent and all consuming, like the pair were schoolyard crushes at thirteen daring quick stolen brushes of hands, too afraid to do anything else. 

Timothée stared at him for a moment before letting his own hand slide down, coming to rest on his inner-calf. Inconspicuous, if anyone were to care, but powerful enough to speak volumes in between them as they caught each other’s eyes and refused to let go as the images of the tv distorted into flashes of light in their pupils; far more captivating than whatever appeared to be happening on the rerun. 

A laugh track erupted from the colossus of the Zenith wooden box tv, tearing away Armie’s attention to whatever comment Dorothy had made that had caused Arthur to burst out in a half-drunk spurt of laughter. He watched as Charlie launched a throw pillow at Arthur’s head, making both him and Timothée laugh, though he could sense where Timothée’s attention was focused – his vision sidelined towards Armie more than anything else, his fingers pressing in where his hand rested.

Armie didn’t look. He didn’t have to. This wasn’t lust, these weren’t meaningless moments of teenage yearning. Where his own hand was, he let it slide up the cuff of his jeans slightly to brush the hidden skin with the pads of his fingers. It was a faultless touch – blameless, honorable – and a confirmation of so much more. 

This transcended anything else he could conceive ever feeling again, this was like coming home to a soul you didn’t know you had loved in a previous life only to realize that, _yes, of course it’s you._

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

_Timothée._ The name rolled from Armie’s tongue alone with him in the attic, trying to get the French pronunciation right as he observed the dark haired boy as he laid in the corner bed, half propped up against the wall the bed was pushed against.  
_What?_ Timothée looked back at him from where he stood at their bags, digging through to find a t-shirt, his previous sweater already abandoned from his body.  
_Nothing, he just liked saying it._ He shrugged, watching Timothée come over to him to stand at the edge of the bed. Once he stopped, his legs pressing against the side of the bed as he leaned in, Armie continued, _Did he say it right?_

Timothée hummed in assurance, and when Armie outstretched his arm towards him to pull him closer onto the bed, he let himself pick up a knee to crawl onto the mattress. With Armie still in the corner and Timothée sitting on his knees, Armie let his hand drag up his arm and then rest to caress his face in his palm. Timothée stilled for a moment to enjoy the touch before clamouring to straddle him. 

Armie looked up at him as he adjusted his legs to either side of him, and moved to rest his hands on his hips to steady him as the look Timothée cast down to him sent chills through his body. He brought Timothée closer to him once he was balanced, letting his face be tilted up by Timothée’s hands as he leaned down from his vantage to bring their lips together. 

It’s not like earlier – no rush or fleeting intensity – but the desperation is still there, this seemingly innate want to cling to one another. It’s slow and heedy, and it makes Timothée let out a quiet moan of satisfaction that makes Armie pull back with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “you know there are still others in this house, right?” he chuckles softly, drawing his thumb down his lips to pull at his bottom one, “you’ll get us in trouble.”

Timothée leaned his head and groaned in frustration, before looking back down and chuckling too, “what a bunch of dicks.”

“Well,” Armie nodded his head, amused, “you’re not exactly wrong.”

Timothée rolled his eyes and leaned his body back before Armie reached for his arms and pulled him back towards him. His gaze followed the movements of his hands – over every small trace of the pale creamy tone, every dot and freckle and scar. He knew it was just a body: thin limbs that functioned like millions of others, markings that were unextraordinary in principle (though seemed nothing short of extraordinary in context of Timothée), blood and cells and organs that would all fail one day. Rationally, Timothée was nothing more or less than anyone else, but Armie was not rational. Nothing of the sort would matter. 

There would come a day, in the end, where both of their bodies would be vacant of soul. Of life, of love, of memory. When they’d decompose into the dirt and fade into the fabric of existence every other unextraordinarily extraordinary life had come from and returned back to. They were mortal, of course, as every living being was. But they were not as every living being had been, not really: instead, they were the lucky ones – Armie’s convinced – and for a moment, he swears he’s found eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want to find me in between updates, feel free to follow/contact me on tumblr @/gaychalamet


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! sorry this took way longer than excepted – life got in the way with preparations for school in the fall! I promise that shouldn't happen again as everything is pretty much squared away now!
> 
> to get this up as soon as possible, I didn't edit it as throughly as I usually do, so I'm sorry for any errors!
> 
> at the end of the chapter notes, I discuss my thoughts on the stuff with Timothée and Eiza Gonzales if you want to read them in full, but as a short summary:
> 
> Eiza's blackface and cultural appropriation is not okay. It needs to be dealt with properly. But it is not Timothée's fault for what she has done in her past that he didn't know about before it resurfaced, and it may not be his place to address it. That is largely on her. 
> 
> Traveling right now like they did is irresponsible. However, Timothée is human and makes mistakes. He is not the only person who is traveling right now, unfortunately. 
> 
> The more that comes out, in my opinion, the more this blatantly looks like PR. However, Timothée's personal life is personal. This relationship, if real, is between two consenting adults and no one has any say in that other than them. If it is PR – albeit this is very badly planned PR stunt – that is up to the discretion of Timothée and his PR team behind closed doors. Unfortunately, these things happen in the entertainment industry all the time.

Florence leaned towards Armie, joint in between her fingers as she held it to her mouth and let him light it before inhaling, leaning back and blowing the smoke out of the crack in her window. Armie had taken up most of her bed, leaning up against the far wall as his legs stretched much of the length of the extra long twin-sized mattress all the dorms were outfitted with. He’d pushed himself back as far as he could to avoid anyone seeing him through the window, his body mostly in the corner that her bed was pushed up in and his legs below the line of the window seal. Florence leaned up against the same wall as the window, in between it and Armie, her legs crossed over his and coming down to hang off the width of the bed – easy access to nonchalantly tilt her head and blow the smoke out of the room. Luckily, her room faced the back side of campus that led into the woods; there was no quad outside that people would walk through and notice what she was doing. 

_Wasn’t she worried someone would see?_ Armie raised his eyebrows at her. He didn’t get why she opened the window, they could just light a match and spray some air freshener to clear out the smell.  
_Not as worried as he should be,_ she remarked. Which to an extent, was true. It might look bad, yes, but the administration would also lose their minds. Between everything, it was an upwards of five offences he’d be assumed of – a week of detention, if he was lucky. _When it came to herself,_ she admitted, _according to her classmates, there were bigger things the school would be worried about._

Armie didn’t need to ask, or want to, for that matter. The speculation had run like wildfire amongst the students; the crux of it being that Florence had started sleeping with one of the history teachers. He figured it was a rumor, started by a lacrosse boy mad she wouldn’t pay him the time of day, but if it wasn’t, he wanted deniability. 

“Are your parents coming in then?” She asked, knowing it would get his attention from wherever he was zoning out to, “For parent’s weekend, I mean.”

He rested his head back as if in exasperation, sighing, “God, I hope not, but knowing my luck, I’m sure they’ll be back in the states just because .” He sighed, “Way to be a buzzkill, Pugh, way to ruin the mood. Barely February and you’re dredging in March already.”

She laughed, “I could’ve brought up Valentine’s Day.” 

He groaned loudly, putting his head in his hand while his cigarette dangled between two fingers and then looked back up at her, unamused. “I would rather personally gouge my own eyes out with a dull spoon.”

“Can you impersonally gouge your own eyes out?” She squinted, “Is there a dullness scale for spoons?”

“Florence, that’s not what this is – ” he answered, dejected as if he just wanted to give in out of exhaustion, “You know, don’t you?”

Her eyes softened, “Of course I know. I know everything, Armie.” She studied his face, he studied hers. He’d just come for a smoke, he hadn’t come for them to start bearing their secrets to one another. She took another drag, “That’s kind of my schtick.” 

He knew he should’ve been put on edge by her. This was the girl who held nearly every secret on everyone. Before, he thought he was in the clear. Now he wasn’t. But she was inviting in a way, solemn face and large eyes – even with her ponytail coming loose and frizzing out and her tie undone around her neck – like she understood, wise beyond her years. She knew without him having to say anything, but he also knew that she’d listen if he was to say anything, and that she’d never repeat it. He wondered if this was how Timothée felt with Saoirse. There was Oscar, but Oscar’s mind worked in puzzles and codes and cryptic half-admissions. This was an honest relief. 

“Do you know what you’re going to do?” She dared to asked

He sighed, “I wish I didn’t.”

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

Timothée leaned against the doorframe of the entrance to Arime’s dorm, who sat at his desk oblivious to Timothée, hunched over a plate of food he’d stolen and brought up from the dining hall, scribbling something on his desk. 

_Who was he hiding from, then?_ Timothée announced his presence once he realized Armie wouldn’t on his own accord, making him look back at him and he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He smiled, _Not him_ , he hoped.  
_No,_ he shook his head, covering his mouth as he swallowed. _He wasn’t avoiding anyone,_ he meant.  
_Well, that’s bullshit_. Timothée sat down on the bed and leaned back against the wall as Armie spun his chair slowly in his direction, who gave him a weird look, _the guys had told him that he had something to take care of for college._ He tilted his head and looked at where he was scribbling on the wood of his desk, “And unless Brown wanted you to steal dining hall dishes and draw aliens skating boarding – though, it is pretty good.”

“Well, you know, Brown and their open curriculum.” Armie smiled, and the pair of them laughed for a moment before Armie’s smile fell, “Hey, you know you’re gonna be okay when I leave, don’t you? I mean, obviously, you’ll do great. You always do. I just – I don’t want you to be upset, which I don’t know, might be the worst thing to say, but I just want you to know you’ll be okay.”

Timothée stopped smiling as well. Truth was, he didn’t know. He had prepared himself for what he thought was coming, figured he’d go back to Paris and cry the month of June away, come back to Archibald only to sulk through his senior year, maybe the rest of his life – never getting over it. But he understood what Armie was telling him, why he was telling him; this is what he truly knew, the comfort he could give. If Armie could survive it, so would he. He took it to heart, but nonetheless, looked away from Armie’s gaze, “why are we talking about this right now?”

Armie’s eyes looked sad, he swallowed air as if he was trying to compose himself, “Because if we don’t now, will we ever?” He asked, “I just – we don’t have to talk about it anymore, I mean, if you don’t want to you – I just thought you should know that. In case it ever feels like you won’t. You’re too good for me, Timothée.”

“No,” Timothée shook his head, “no, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are,” he sighed deeply, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment, “you’ll see that, eventually.”

Timothée knew nothing he said would change his mind, so he gave up on the pursuit, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it was the one thing I wish someone had told me.” Armie looked back at him, but his gaze seemed far away

Timothée watched Armie slip further into whatever had overcome him to occupy his mind, knowing that the conversation was over, and though not entirely upset that they wouldn’t have to talk about it anyone, he was still worried of where Armie’s consciousness had gone. “Armie?”

“Hm?” Armie seemed relieved, as if the words had been crushing him for some time and expression softened

“Kiss me?” He asked 

Armie cast a quick glance to the door, checking to make sure it was closed before turning back to Timothée. His lips pulled at a minute absent-minded smile, and then he pulled the boy in close to him. 

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

Saoirse found Florence waiting for her outside the gym facilities Archibald and Armeda shared, bundled up in a large dark green puffer ski coat, as her breath fogged in the air. She said goodbye to Timothée – who’d walked with her towards his dorm from the performing arts center and split off from her to continue down the path to the main hub of the boy’s campus – shouting a simple, _See you!_ as they walked away from each other. Timothée just waved back.

As Saoirse made her way to Florence, she noticed the girl’s eyeline follow Timothée as he disappeared around one of the academic buildings. “Is he alright?” She asked as they finally started walking in the opposite direction to the Armeda campus 

“Yeah,” Saoirse raised an eyebrow and looked over to her, as if trying to shift through any motives that would’ve possibly head her to ask such a thing, “Why do you ask?”

“No reason, right now at least.” Florence looked up at the sky, pink and orange as it set, “You know we’ll have to be here to pick up the pieces in the fall, right?”

She nodded, “you know too then, don’t you?”

Florence nearly laughed, “You guys keep asking me that like you don’t know who I am,” She asked, “I’m me.”

“Who’s you guys?” Saoirse asked 

“You, and Armie, obviously. That’s all.” She shrugged, “I figured you knew from pretty much the get go. I’m sure Oscar does, but you know him. I’ve only talked to you and Armie, though.”

“Armie…” She said his name as if she was mulling it over her head, “Did he say something worrying to you?”

The pair walked up the few steps to the porch of their dorm house, and once on the patio, Florence stepped to the side so as to not block the front door or let anyone hear them, “No.” She shook her head, “At least, not for Timothée.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thoughts on the situation with Timmy and Eiza Gonzalez:
> 
> Eiza’s blackface and cultural appropriation: Blackface and cultural appropriation are harmful and damaging, and extremely racist. That is not okay. That is a situation that needs to be addressed and dealt with properly.  
> In terms of people getting mad at Timothée for it, the images only really resurfaced after the two of them were seen together, and I don’t think your history with blackface is something that is typically brought up with someone you're going out with. Especially early on. I don’t think Timothée really had much of a way to know beforehand. That being said, being seen making out with someone who seems to be a racist does reflect back on yourself, and that is something he should probably try to address appropriately. 
> 
> On the fact that he was in f*cking Cabo in the middle of a pandemic: It is irresponsible and tone deaf to be going on vacation right now while US cases are spiking and the death toll is staggering. That being said, he isn’t the only person, or especially celebrity/influencer, who has traveled in the past few weeks while things have opened up. Timothée isn’t a flawless human being who does everything correctly. He’s a human being who is an actor. He shouldn’t be vacationing, but that’s up to his digression in ordnance with travel guidelines. 
> 
> On Timothée being in a relationship: None of our business. He’s an adult who is entitled to his own personal life. He’s an actor, not a dating show personality. This is really going to show just how invested people get in celebrities' lives when it is not their right to do so. Can you be disappointed in him? Sure, I guess. Is this a valid reason to fully cancel him right now? No. Focus on the truly important things that is happening right now: particularly the sexual abuse that famous, rich men are trying to get away with and supporting the BLM movement in beneficial ways, such as educating yourself, donating, protesting, signing petitions, calling representatives etc. At the end of the day, these are two consenting adults who can be with whoever they want to be with and don’t owe anyone on the internet anything in terms of that. They are two separate independent people whose lives and actions are not one. If it becomes necessary to reassess upon further (ill) actions in the future, then so be it. 
> 
> If it’s a PR thing, which it looks like it may very well be, then that’s something between him and his PR team, but this looks awful and they are messing up quite badly right now because it has gone very wrong very quickly. However, unfortunately, these things are essentially common practice in Hollywood. Celebrities fake relationships for publicity, and they call the paps on themselves for mutual gain all around. 
> 
> Sometimes, when we are fans of someone, we can become very emotionally attached to someone we frankly don't know. We become extremely good at hyping up people and making them out to be more than they could possibly be. Idolizing normal human beings in such an extreme isn’t good, or healthy for anyone, and I believe that consequences of that are slightly coming into play right now.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My apologies that this particular chapter is coming at this particular time, which is slightly unfortunate, but I'm trying to keep some consistency with updating and this was planned in advance. It is in no way a reaction to the divorce news, or hate towards Liz – just a necessary part of the fiction. Like last time, if you care to read, my notes on the news will be at the end of the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the lovely comments and discourse, as always. they mean so much, even if i get caught up in things and don't always show as much appreciation for them as i want to. thank you. 
> 
> also, the next chapter is shaping up to be longer, i promise, so look forward to that. as well as some other new things in the works!
> 
> if you want to find me in between updates – i'm on tumblr @/gaychalmet.
> 
> –t

Armie pressed Timothée against the brick wall, one hand on his school tie while the other brought his face to his own, the dark of curls already a mess. Timothée sighed into Armie’s mouth, giving in for a moment to the soft intensity of his lips before remembering where they were and pushing him away, immediately running a hand through his hair and then down to straighten his tie. 

_Jesus Christ_ , he whispered, running the back of his hand harshly across his mouth, avoiding eye contact but trying to look around to make sure no one had seen them  
_Hm?_ Armie tilted his head to try to gauge a look into Timothée’s eyes, who turned his head immediately in the opposite direction, not thinking about the access it gave Armie to his throat, which he gladly took – bending to capture where his throat curved to meet his shoulder in lips.

“Armie,” he sighed, exhaling in both mild frustration and pleasure, almost letting out a breathy laugh, his hands finding his way to his broad shoulders. When he doesn’t respond, he moves again, “We can’t do this here – what if someone sees?”

Armie looked around as if to prove a point. No one was there. It was basically an alley – three tall brick walls that faced open to one of the least trafficked parts of campus. At the end, the large campus dumpsters sat, no one would come anywhere near the area until after lunch, when the dining staff would bring the waste from the meal back. “They won’t.”

He tries to kiss him again, and for a second he succeeds, Timothée letting their lips do barely more than brush. “ _But_ they could.” 

Timothée reached down to pick down his book bag “And what if I don’t care if they see us?”

Another breathy laugh. “Now you’re just lying.” He took another few steps, walking backwards as they heard the noon bell ring through campus, “lunch?”

Armie reached out to grab his hand and bring his knuckles to his lips, but nodded. “Go, I’ll meet you outside the library?”

Timothée agreed, slipping out from the alley and around the building, leaving Armie to wait. 

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

The pair walked across the law from the library to the dining hall, keeping in line what they had practiced for distancing to keep any suspicions at bay, two buddies going from class to lunch like everyone else – as if they hadn’t just made out behind a school building. 

_What was he planning?_ Timothée asked, trying to carry a normal conversation without thinking about the taste of Armie, _for Friday,_ he meant – Valentine’s Day – _with his girlfriend._  
Armie had to try to stop himself from groaning, _it was like they all wanted him to suffer._  
_They all?_ Timothée questioned. Who else would know?  
_Him and Florence_ , he explained before muttering, _the fuckers._

“Maybe you should consider breaking up with her?” Timothée dared to ask, opening one of the large wooden doors for Armie to walk through before he followed behind, “I mean – not for – you know – just for your own sanity, if dinner makes you _suffer_ …” 

“Dinner? That’s your suggestion?” Armie looked over his shoulder as Timothée came back to walk at his side, the pair both throwing down their own book bags on the pile of everyone else’s outside the entry of the dining hall 

“Isn’t that what people do?” He asked, taking the plate Armie passed him as they lined up at the buffet line, “– that one place in town, the almost fancy one? Italian. You should bring me back some spaghetti, when you go.”

This was it, this fun in openly carrying secrets. No one knew – friends discussed their girlfriends all the time. This was normal conversation for two boys at lunch, and yet… 

Armie shook his head, almost laughing “This is bizarre – you can’t just plan my dates.”

“If I don’t, who will?” Timothée retorted, holding out his plate for one of the dining hall staff to drop a chicken breast on his plate, “Oh!” He pointed a fork at him, “And flowers.”

They were nearly in sync as they sat down in their usual seats, the immediate table space empty, waiting for the rest of the boys to occupy their own typical spots. ”She’d kill me if I didn’t at least get her flowers.” 

“Well, good thing I’m here then, isn’t it?” Timothée smiled, “we can’t go having any of that now, obviously.” 

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

The candle on the table flickered, not from the force of lover’s voices leaning excitedly towards one another subconsciously over a Valentine’s Day meal, but from what was entirely the opposite – Elizabeth trying not to huff out of frustration watching Armie distractedly stare into his iced tea.

She waved her hand, gaining Armie’s attention with a question of his name – _Armie?_  
His name sounded weird from her, after hearing it from Timmy so frequently. He looked up at her, trying to seem engaged by also clearly partially far away, _Hm?_  
_Was he okay?_ She asked. _He had been avoiding her_ , she pointed out, _since Christmas._  
He reassured her – _everything was fine_ – though that was a lie, he was just spending a lot of time trying to process leaving. It was something his therapist had told him he’d have to do, she thought it would be difficult to move on from the place that reminded him of Daniel. But he’d never tell Elizabeth that – there were too many NDA’s. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to.  
_It wasn’t fair._ Elizabeth nearly protested, he had gotten an extra year. _He should have been over it._

He should have been over it – an extra year. It wasn’t the truth at all. He’d gotten so little time. Not with Archibald, Archibald was donor-funded buildings and brick pathways and he’d hardly notice a difference in college. But with Timothée; he had gotten virtually nothing. A blink in time, a tease of the universe. 

“You’re being selfish.” She said, in an indifferent way Armie didn’t think a seventeen year old girl should be capable of, “you’re not the only one leaving in May.”

“Shouldn’t you want to spend time with your friends then, too? Isn’t that what everyone should want right now?” He asked, “Who knows what happens to them – we’ll barely be in different area codes.” 

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you. What’s going on with those friends of yours that suddenly is the most interesting thing you’ve ever experienced, but you need to figure it out.” She stared at him as if she almost knew something more. Almost, not quite. She reached out, placing her hand on top of his, perhaps to be comforting, but it made Armie nearly want to crawl out of his own skin. “All of this is just high school, Armie – the uniforms and our friends and that boy – you can’t let it ruin the rest of your life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t sure when to post this, especially because it’s this chapter and it all seems just like really bad timing, but I hadn’t updated in quite a few days, so I figured I should just do so. I promise, I shouldn't be having to make anymore statements on my thoughts from now on – it seems like everything that can happen, has – but just to be safe. 
> 
> Reminder:  
> Armie’s divorce is Armie’s business. Of course I have my own personal feelings and perspective on what seems like going down. But remember, they have children, who are young now, but will grow up and see everything that is online. This will affect them forever. I know there’s a lot going around about prenups and alimony and custody, and while I don’t think it’s anyone’s business besides their own, I just hope it is not a nasty split and that the kids having their parents is top priority. Please don’t pry or say you’re happy about this. If they were unhappy, divorce is the best option so that they can provide best for their children and preserve their own happiness and sanity. You can support Armie and the fact that he is no longer in something that wasn’t the best for him – but this is not cause for outright celebration. Divorce is hard, it is going to be painful for everyone involved in some respect. We are not involved.
> 
> I have never meant any harm or ill will towards Liz, with anything written in this story so far, especially with this chapter and with this timing, and with anything I write in the future. This is fiction, it is not representative of real life or the real people behind these characters. I wish for nothing but the best for everyone that is mentioned in this story, and though not limited to the divorce, that is something that is especially pertinent right now.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi. i'm alive. life has just been crazy the past few months. i'm sorry for the absence. hope some of you all are still here, and i hope you're doing well. i did some revamping and renaming of side characters for various reasons – if you want to catch up on that, a quick skimming of chapter three again should clear it up. 
> 
> i'm sorry for any errors, as always, sometimes things slip through editing on accident and i can't always catch them.
> 
> –t

Armie’s parents came into town in the early Friday morning of the school’s family weekend – the glorified parent-teacher conferences that had slowly morphed into a strange show and tell of what Archibald had spent their money on in order to inflate the pompous display of prestige it liked to project. It was his mother who called him, the voice of DruAnn Hammer as a wake up call from the rented car they had picked up at the airport to remind him they’d be there by lunch. Armie dreaded it, he couldn’t even enjoy the small fact that the school had given them a half day. 

The classes were essentially pointless, each barely able to get through anything, mostly just running through what the kids would have to do when their parents went back to their suburban mansions while they failed to pay actual attention. It was a useless morning, Armie sitting at a desk while everyone around him chatted about plans and whose parents were actually coming and who was going to tag along with them to get off campus. He was almost entirely zoned out until he had made it through to lunch, relieved when he noticed Timothée’s door cracked open as he made his way down the hall of the dorm. 

Armie knocked on the door lightly, waiting to hear Timmy’s voice through the open crack – the nonchalant _come in_ that, for some reason, made him smile. He was comfortable, settled at Archibald, with his friends and his life, and with Armie. Armie was comfortable too, slinging his backpack down in the corner of the room as he entered before he made his way to fling himself onto Timothée’s bed as the younger boy stopped what he was doing to turn his desk chair towards Armie, lying face down as he reached to hug around one of Timmy’s pillows. 

_How had he already gotten back to dorm so early?_ Armie asked, he had thought that he’d have been one of the first ones to vacate the classrooms to get a moment of silence before his parents came to campus and ruined his peace.  
Timothée explained, _got let out of class early._ He turned back to the mug of coffee he had stolen from the cafeteria. 

Armie sat up, pulling his legs to cross over one another and make himself at home in Timothée’s bed. He extended a hand out for Timmy to share his coffee, which he did without a second thought. It was normal for them, the small inconsequential things lovers do without even realizing what they really meant. He took a drink of the lukewarm black coffee, hating the taste but reminding himself he was going to need it as his parents arrived. “You know, if a prefect caught you with a contraband mug like this, you’d definitely be in trouble.” He couldn’t help but smile, “Timothée Chalamet — _smuggling mugs from the dining hall_.” 

The younger boy rolled his eyes, “shut up.”

“Seriously though,” Armie reached out for him, “do you ever actually eat anything in the dining hall?”

Timothée blushed, “of course I do.” He protested, “it’s just that — “ he shrugged 

“Just that, _what_?” Armie asked 

By now Timothée was standing up, legs pressing into the edge of the bed, Armie’s hand in the pocket of his blazer. He didn’t meet the older boy’s eyes. “I figured you’d come up here to get some peace before your parents came, and I wanted to be around in case you happened to want to hang out before they showed up.” 

Armie grinned. “You know me too well,” he pulled the curly haired boy gently towards him, his hand going to his head to bring him to kiss him. 

“Will you bring me back food though?” Timothée asked quietly, “I am kind of hungry, and today’s lunch didn’t look good either way.”

“Ravioli?” Armie asked, knowing what Timmy always made him get him when he went out for Italian, “knowing my parents, I can almost guarantee you that’s where we’ll end up.”

Timothée nodded, and stood back up straight for only a moment before sitting back down in his desk chair. “What do they even do in conferences with post-grad students?” He asked, “ _Armie here is doing great,_ ” he joked, “ _so great, in fact, he’s already graduated and gotten into an ivy._ ”

Armie mocked him back, breaking out into laughter. “Oh, shut up.” He shook his head lightly, laying back down onto the bed. He looked over to Timothée, who had gotten comfy in his office chair again, legs pulled up to his chest and eye raised in a playful manner towards Armie as he had gone back to drinking his coffee. Armie smiled, perhaps at the stripped simplicity of his brief cocoon of happiness, and closed his eyes gently. His hand reached out for Timmy’s again, and his fingers quickly found their destination, intertwining with Timothée’s own fingers in that comfortable familiarity that seems as though only lovers share. 

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

Florence took advantage of the lax rules of family weekend, allowing herself to be comfortable with her legs draped over Timothée’s on his common room couch instead of sneaking in like she usually did. They didn’t really do much, there wasn’t much to do anyways. Nearly everyone else’s family had arrived and the other few who didn’t took the free afternoon to flee campus – leaving those without cars or family in town to stare at blank walls of dorm halls and find amusement in between the alum parents wandering around for old times sake. 

Timothée’s parents wouldn’t come until the next day, which he wouldn’t have expected hadn’t they been in New York for a guest lecture his father was participating in at NYU for one of his old grad school friends, who’d gone on to become a professor. It had lined up perfectly, though Timothée wasn’t sure if it was to his dismay or joy, _but at least_ – he thought – _after the torture of sitting through what he sure was to become bonding sessions between his teachers and parents, he’d get a night out of his dorm bed and a few free meals from town._ His mother would scold him for the waffle tower he was already daydreaming of, but it was well worth it. 

Unlike Timothée, Florence’s parents were still in Europe, not seeing a reason for the ten hour flight only to sit in the same classrooms with the same teachers she’d had for years saying the same things about her that they had since she was thirteen. They’d come in April, at the official alumni weekend before spring break, when her mom would have the full attention on her. Then, she could use Florence as an accessory to brag about with the other accomplishments in her life. She had nothing to worry about, four blocks of time already scheduled in three days to nap as she pleased without the disruption of school work or the other girls being around. She liked the idea of largely alone for all that time; a reset, of sorts, she supposed.

Hearing Armie’s voice at the end of the hallway caught both of their attention, and when they heard the multiple sets of footsteps, also caught Timothée horror. His parents. He looked to Florence with wide eyes, as if to beg for support, to which she took a deep breath and Timmy followed suit. As if to say, it’s going to be okay. He’d played the platonic role around everyone else so well, this was no different. 

Once they made it to the common room, Timmy could tell Armie had thought the exact same thing. Armie’s charm was in full gear, as if playing up the show of being Armie Hammer in front of his parents, and entirely succeeding. He entered the room with a large smile, which was accompanied by an _oh, good, you're here!_

Timothée nodded as Armie approached him, handing him a to-go box. He looked to Florence, who was staring between him and the meal, and assured her that he gotten the dinner size with plenty for her, if Timothée allowed.

Though Timothée didn’t particularly care about the ravioli anymore, instead focusing on but trying not to stare at his parents. What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to say? – Hi, Mr. Hammer, Mrs. Hammer, nice to meet you. Did you know I sucked your son off forty-eight hours ago? – No. 

Armie had already moved on to the actual introduction. “Mom, Father – this is my friend Timothée, – Chalamet – he lives across the hall. He’s new this year, from Paris.” He explained, and the three of them exchanged awkward smiles, “Timothée, these are my parents.” He cast another look to Florence, “and of course, you already know Florence.”

They exchanged pleasantries; _how are you’s_ and _what have you done today’s_ , questions from Mr. Hammer on why Timothée had transferred from France and how he liked Archibald and from Mrs. Hammer on who his family was and what they did and what he was going to do. It was a polite interrogation, he realized, they were scoping him out for flaws that might impede their son in the course of their friendship. It was ironic, really, considering the truth, but the wool had been successfully pulled over the Hammers’ eyes. They seem satisfied in his answers and allowed Armie to whisk them away quite quickly soon afterwards without any fuss. Only when he heard the door behind them close downstairs did he let himself exhale the breath he found himself holding in. Florence tried not to laugh. 

“What?” Timothée asked, looking over to the blonde girl to raise an eyebrow  
“You’re fine, Timothée.” She shook her head, reaching for her magazine on the coffee table, “They’re so clueless it nearly hurts.”

__

__࿐,･:*:･ﾟ★ ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆, ࿐_ _

__

Armie watched as the Chalamets entered the restaurant, sitting across the room of the dimly lit italian restaurant; nearly restricted by a column – but not quite. Timothée caught his eye midway through ordering his drink, noticing the unsubtle way Armie kept staring over at him when his own parents weren’t paying attention. Timothée tried to ignore Armie as best as he could. While the Hammer’s seemed clueless under the guise of whatever perfect son act Armie was able to pull around him, he knew his parents weren’t nearly as content with ignoring the signs that could’ve clued anyone in to what was really going on. 

Timothée realized that’s why they were able to continue to pull off their little transgression – that is, the willingness of everyone around them to turn a blind eye in favor of ignorance in order to make themselves believe what they wanted to see. But it wouldn’t last forever, it wouldn’t work on everyone. It already hadn’t. 

He smiled at the waitress who brought them appetizers, catching Armie’s eyes again as his mother politely talked to the young woman. They looked at each other just long enough for Armie to tilt his head to the right. Timothée glanced to where he was guestering, the bathroom. When he looked back, Armie had gone back to talking to his parents. Timothée excused himself to his own parents – freshen up before dinner came – before heading to the men’s room, figuring Armie would follow him in a few minutes. 

Timothée beelined for one of the stalls, locking himself in and leaning against the wall waiting for Armie. He heard the door opened, and then paused, trying to gauge if it was him or not. The other person in the room seemed to pause too for a moment, before calling out, “Timmy?”

 _In here,_ Timothée responded, unlocking the stall door to allow Armie access.  
The taller boy joined him, kissing him nearly immediately as he locked the stall door behind him.  
_He had to make sure no one was in here_ , Armie explained. _God, they make him want to slam his head into a table._  
_Who?_ The dark haired boy looked up at him, _his parents?_  
_No_ , Armie joked, _his imaginary friends._ Timothée rolled his eyes, Armie continued, _of course it’s his parents. Couldn't stand them – Timothée was much better company._

____

____

____

He bent down to bring Timothée’s face up to look at him, his free hand extending out to lean against the stall as he brought the shorter boy's face to his own and kissed him deeply. Timothée kissed him back, reaching up to wrap his hands around his neck, tangling his fingers in his hair. For a moment, he was caught up in Armie’s lips before pulling back.

 _They were in a public bathroom._ Timothée scolded in a whisper, trying to catch his breath  
_So?_ Armie dared  
_Someone could talk in,_ Timothee pointed out, _four feet in one stall is suspicious, at best._  
_No, it’s a miracle, at best._ Armie shrugged, _public indecency at worst._

Timothée rolled his eyes as Armie climbed onto the toilet, sitting on the top of the lid so that he wasn’t visible from outside the stall. “Better?”

__The dark haired leaned in to kiss him again, “Much.”_ _

__As he was pulling back, the bathroom door opened again, someone else’s footsteps echoing in the room. Timothée breath hitched, turning to look towards the door – though all he could see was the blue of the toilet stall wall. He looked back to Armie, who was desperately trying not to laugh as they could hear the man relieve himself and then the sound of the water hitting the porcelain of the sink before the footsteps retreated and the door opened again as the man left. Once the door could be heard swinging closed, the pair burst out in quiet laughs._ _

__“Close call.” Armie joked_ _

__Timothée blushed, glancing down and then back up, “I hate you.”_ _

__“Nah, no you don’t.” Armie broke out in a cheeky grin, “we should probably get back out there.”_ _

__The taller boy looked down to make sure he was all straightened out before turning around to leave. He reached to unlock the stall before Timothée reached for his hand again. Armie turned around in question, and almost immediately Timothée pulled him into another kiss. Armie smiled into Timothée’s lips, kissed him back, ran a hand through his hair, and then finally, headed up to leave._ _

__He tried to seem inconspicuous as he exited the men’s bathroom, making his way across the restaurant back to his parents. And he’d have almost made it too, if it weren’t for Timothée’s mother catching his eye – or who he assumed was his mother – the kind looking middle-aged woman at the table Timothée had been sat at, and whom he recognized from the photo on Timothée’s family that lived on his desk. He nodded at her in a curt, polite manner, and gracefully, she smiled back. As if to say, she knew but also, that it was okay._ _

__Armie felt himself almost get flustered at the gesture, but managed to suppress what he felt as he made it back to his table. Druanne looked up as her son sat back down; his father had stood up and walked a few feet away, caught up on a business call._ _

__“Are you okay?” She asked_ _

__Armie glanced up from his menu at his mother, “Oh, um, yeah.” In truth, he was staring right past her, watching as Timothée made his way back to his own table, and the caring way his mother rested her arm on the back of his chair, her fingers briefly running through his hair before she turned back to his wine. He didn’t know why he suddenly felt jealous, and he hated the feeling, either way._ _

__“Who’s got your attention back there?” She inquired, but not bothering to look back. She didn’t really care, her menu was much more interesting than whatever her son was actually doing. Still, for a brief moment, Armie felt a slight panic rise in his chest._ _

__“No one, Mom. Just someone I recognized from school.” He shook his head, trying to appear nonchalant, “Did you order any appetizers?”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, please remember to leave a comment and kudos! 
> 
> again, you can always find me on tumblr @/gaychalamet!


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